


The Placebo Effect

by Maesonry



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types, Scream (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dark Humor, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gaslighting, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implications, Love/Hate, M/M, Multi, My Slasher My Slasher and Me: Roadtrip Edition, Mystery, One-Sided Attraction, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Horror, Reader-Insert, Road Trips, Romantic Dingy Motel Scenes, Self-Indulgent, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Stalking, That’s Trauma Baby, Thriller, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2020-09-26 01:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20381191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maesonry/pseuds/Maesonry
Summary: “If you really believe in something, they say it could become real.”You’re not sure what to say. The air feels like it’s suffocating, but it’s just a motel room. Just Michael, carefully staring at you, watching. Somewhere outside, you know that Ghostface is searching- how long will it take him before he finds you again? One slasher that wants you safe, one that wants you dead. You wonder how this story will end for you.





	1. Wheatstalks

Young’s Hardware store always smelled like maple during autumn. Privately, you suspected that Jake- the owner, and your boss- had the scent somehow pumped through the vents, possibly through the combined effort of many air fresheners or industrial strength candles. The smell, though, wasn’t really a bother. It was more of a routine for you by now: enter the store, inhale, wish your departing boss goodbye, then settle in for the till close shift. It was nice. It was routine. The small hardware store paid you well, and that was all you could really ask for. Working alone was just an added bonus. Not to mention, decorating the store.

You looked up. The fake Michael Myers stared impassively back. Like usual. You tilted your head back and forth, and then brushed a strand of loose hair from your eyes, laughing a little, casting a glance at the rain outside- how it made sheets over the front windows and odd shadows over the floor. The leak by aisle six still hadn’t been patched, and speaking of- you strained your ears for a moment. 

“I think it’s almost full,” you mumbled, leaning half on the counter, tilting your head to Michael, “Whaddya think?”

Myers didn’t respond; why would he? He was just a suit and mask, held up by a metal mesh inside. Like the tin man without a heart, your brain idly supplied, still listening to the _tink, tink_ of the water in the bucket. With a shrug, you stepped around the counter and quietly swapped out the (full) bucket with an empty one. Quietly for you, that is. 

“_Michael Audrey Myers,_” the words, half audible, sung under your breath, “_made of tin and wires,_” the new bucket was set down, and you muddled your way through the rest of the makeshift melody, glancing up at the end at the windows of the storefront. The streets were still practically deserted- rain washed away the people, just like the colors and the sun, you mused, before turning back to stare at your companion. You held the stare, one second, two, then cracked it at three with a wry smile, stepping back up and behind your counter space. 

“Y’know, you’ve been living here for free for like, what, almost two weeks now?” you drawled, the sound filling the silence like the raindrops and the AC, resting your head in your palm in a lazy sort of way, “Least you could do is be a good conversationalist. I swear, it’s like I’m talking to a statue.”

No one was around to laugh at your joke, so you snorted. Rough and slightly nasally. He didn’t respond- and thank god for that- so it was just you, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and the smell of maple and innovation. The snorts pettered off, and then you were back to observing the rest of the store, your gaze occasionally sliding over to Michael. The third cycle around the store, your smile was gone from your face, and you shifted your stance so that you could pretend you weren’t looking at him again. The joke wasn’t so funny anymore. Maybe it wasn’t really funny in the first place? Mostly depressing, actually- talking to a fictional slasher for fun, sure, but the part of you that was genuinely sad that he’d be gone at the end of October. Depressing was one word for it-

The phone rang.

“Fuck!” you jumped back, holding your elbow from where it smacked off the counter, before turning to look at the store phone, a twist in your mouth, “Wish we had a display for the numbers,” you muttered, before grabbing the phone and clearing your throat. 

“Hi! You’ve reached Young’s Hardware Store, how can I help you?” false cheer oozed from your voice. If one listened closely, they could hear deep fissures of pain emanate from it. Arguably, a normal retail experience. 

“_How’s my favorite employee doing?_” the familiar voice of Jake Young asked, made fuzzy by the outdated phone. You snorted.

“Only employee.”

“_I’m sure all the kids are just lining up to work here, you know. Better watch out._”

You both laughed at that, and you busied your hand with the looped cord of the phone, plucking it with a little nostalgia and boredom, “What’s up?”

“_Right! Right. I forgot to mention it before I left- my sister sent me some decorations for the store. Since I mentioned you were crazy about Halloween, and all._”

You resisted the urge to debate (again) that you just had a healthy appreciation of Halloween (“not an obsession, Mr. Young!”), instead focusing on the first part of the sentence.

“Decorations?”

“_Yep. Check the box on the stock room table. Oh, and feel free to put them wherever. Just, y’know, not in the bathroom_,” a pause, “_again_.”

“That was one time.”

The silence was judgement all the same. You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it, nor could he see the fond smile on your face, “Thanks, Mr. Young. I’ll get right on it. Was that it?”

“_And no-_ canoodling _with your boyfriend_.”

“I- No one even calls it canoodling!” you sputtered and then added in an angrier, higher pitch, “And I was just adjusting his mask- he’s not my boyfriend!” 

_Clang_, the phone being lightly slammed back down on the receiver. You were the only witness to your red face. You and Michael.

“This is your fault,” you gave him a side eye, before walking into the stock room. Flick, the one light overhead, and there, like he’d said, was the shipping box. Unopened still. You dug out your pocket knife, and continued the jaunty little song from earlier, ending it with a curious pause as you stared into the now opened box.

Standard stuff, mostly. Signs. Lights. A few plastic pumpkins.

A Ghostface mask. 

“Huh,” whispered your voice, as you carefully grabbed the mask and held it up, the cloak still laying in the box. The single light overhead cast down over you, and made the shadows on the mask seem more sharp and sinister. Just like with Myers, his eyes were as black as coals, and in the half darkness, they seemed to stare back at you.

“_Freaky_,” was your only response, as you quietly plucked the cloak from the box and set about finding some straw to make yourself a Ghostface scarecrow. It only took the better part of an hour before he was propped up on the opposite end of the store, half out of your view. You leaned against the counter to make sure he was still standing properly, and, well, he was. Eyes still staring. You murmured something that you didn’t even quite catch, and then you settled back down behind the counter, the quiet tink, tink of the water filling the metal bucket your only companion. That, and the two sets of eyes, staring back at you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghostface will be a mix of the original and of Dead By Daylight’s. Which, mostly means phone calls and stalking, with my own spicy little twist
> 
> Also yeah this was originally made just for myself but I decided to post it. So there’s Extra Drama ™ and fun tropes just because this is self indulgent and hell yhes


	2. Bourbon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don't Answer The Phone. Don't Open The Door. Don't Try To Escape.“
> 
> “_Hello?_” the voice asked. Your first thought was that the voice on the other end was pleasantly deep, and oddly familiar in a way you couldn’t place.

“And then I said, oatmeal? Are you crazy?” you bugged your eyes out, then flicked the pen to the other side of the counter with an exhale of laughter, watching it bounce off of the back of Michael’s mask and clatter backwards. Another rainy day in autumn, another day of boredom at Young’s Hardware. Not that you really minded. The lack of customers gave you plenty of time to clean up the store, or to reorganize the back room- whatever and whenever. You leaned over and swiped the pen back, before grabbing the mop and continuing your steady progress around the store. Swish, swish, into the bucket-

“Whoops. Wrong bucket,” you quickly yanked the mop from the bucket of rainwater, plopping it back into the correct bucket this time, before shaking your head and setting the mop and bucket to the side. _Tink, tink_, the sound of the leaky roof, and your shoes squeaking on the wet floor. For some reason you couldn’t explain, you felt… anxious. You shifted around, eyeing the store left, then right, then you let out an explosive breath of air and ran a hand through your hair. You glanced up and your gaze landed on Ghostface, still propped up where you’d left him. Looking slightly droopier, actually. Anything to take your mind off of whatever was eating you, you walked over and straightened him back out, the loose hay scratching your skin. You smiled, just a little.

“This is the part where you jump out and say boo, right?” you whispered, scratchy voice, pushing his mask back, “No, wait; this is the part where you ring the store phone and then stab me,” you tilted your head, “I think.”

You almost expected the phone to ring at that instant. You even paused unsteadily, waiting, and then released the breath you didn’t realize you were holding as nothing came. You stepped back instead, tapping out a little tune on your legs as you went back to the counter, giving Michael a fond pat as you walked past. The rain outside seemed worse than last time, obscuring the world from view, making it seem like the world ended at the edge of the curb. A few stark red leaves were plastered to the store window, like splatters of blood, and you frowned as you stood up to go clean them off-

_ **BRRRRNG** _

You stumbled back, your heart strangled in your throat and that horrible icy feeling of surprised terror gripping you. The fear ebbed after a moment, but the feeling remained, even as you stared at the store phone, ringing. You managed a shaky laugh, but it only sounded hysterical, not relaxed. 

“Gee, Michael, who do you think it is this time?” you quirked a rickety smile. The scent of maple was a comfort, at least. You wondered if Michael liked maple. No, no focus. The phone. You inhaled, exhaled, then reached forward and plucked it up.

“Hi, you’ve reached Young’s Hardware Store; how can I help you?” 

There was silence. One moment, two, three, and you relaxed your hand as your nails dug into your palm, wondering if it was just a mistaken call. But then, the caller finally responded.

“_Hello?_” the voice asked. Your first thought was that the voice on the other end was pleasantly deep, and oddly familiar in a way you couldn’t place. And your second thought was that they were talking, and that you should probably listen.

“I’m sorry, I spaced out for a moment. What did you say?”

“_I said, is this Young?_” they- or, he asked. You smiled a little as you held the phone up with one shoulder, sorting pamphlets into a pile. 

“No, that’s my boss,” you tried to keep the laugh from your voice, but it must not have worked.

“_Oh. I’m sorry._”

“No, no, it’s fine! It happens a lot,” you assured, your hands gesturing as if he could really see you, “Do you need me to take a message for him?”

“_No_,” and then another pause. Like toothpaste caught between teeth, in the silence. You ventured to help him.

“Is there anything I can help you with, sir?” you weren’t sure why, but something about this seemed oddly familiar, and a part of your brain hoped the answer was no- some reason you couldn’t place.

“_Yes, actually,_” that pause again. The speaker made his voice crackle at odd intervals, but still almost whispered directly into your ear, “_I need some rope. Do you have any?_”

You glanced up and to the left, mentally catalogued what you had in stock, “Let’s see. We have nylon, polyester, hemp- oh, and we recently got in a shipment of heavy duty rope, too.”

“_Heavy duty?_”

“Impossible to cut or break, says the packaging,” you twirled the cord around, tilting your head to Michael, “Y’know, like a serial killer.”

That got a genuine laugh out of the man on the phone. His voice- it drudged up memories of California and dark nights. Maybe someone from when you last visited Jake’s sister there? Before you could even think of anything to say, either, the man on the phone stopped laughing. You unconsciously dug your nails into your palms again- an unhelpful habit, right next to biting the skin from your lip, as you did right now, eyes wandering around the store, picking apart the shadows and the edges. Under your breath, you cursed to yourself.

“_What was that?_” the caller asked, light hearted but curious. You jolted without meaning to- his voice was a whisper, close, as if he were right beside you in the store. He wasn’t. You were alone.

“Nothing! I’m sorry, it’s just, you sound familiar,” and then you added, again, “I’m sorry.”

“_That’s alright. You said I sound familiar?_”

“Well. You know, I can’t really place it,” you shuffled some of the papers around, glancing up in thought, “I’m sorry- you must get that a lot.”

“_No, no. That’s alright. Hey-_” and he trailed off, voice edging under your skin, “_I’ll tell you my name. Maybe that’ll help you out._”

You’d already started to decline out of politeness when he added in a lower tone, less smoke and more sandpaper.

“_But, tell me your name first._”

“My name?” you smiled slightly, “Why would you want that?”

A flash of white, in the corner of your eye, there and gone in an instant.

“_So I can know who I’m looking at right now._”

You froze. The few papers still in your hands drifted lifelessly to the ground, and a sudden, seering sensation of eyes on the back of your neck. There was no one else in the store right now; you knew that. 

Or maybe you weren’t as alone as you’d thought.

“_You know, you should smile. You look so much prettier when you smile_.”

“-I, I have to help another customer now- ” you croaked with your suddenly dry throat, “Goodbye,” and then fumble-slammed the phone down on the receiver. You pressed your back to the counter and clutched crumpled papers to your chest like a shield as you stared out at the door and display windows. Nothing. No sounds in the store. Just you, the rain, the _tink tink_ of the bucket and your wisped, fraying composure. You were overreacting, a part of you hissed. Or you were underreacting. It was just a phone call. Maybe- maybe he hadn’t meant it. People misspeak all the time. 

_Or maybe he’s watching you right now_

“Shut up,” you whispered into the silence, as if you could chase away the intrusive thoughts, clinging to you like tar. Less than a roar but more than a whimper- and you, staring wide eyed at the door, like someone would walk through any second. Nothing. No one. Just you, just the Shape, just Ghostface. 

“It’s nothing, right?” you asked the empty air, eyes turned to Michael, motionless in his seat. The hysteria in your voice was ebbing, and you desperately grasped at anything to make light of what happened, the first words that tumbled from your mouth, a weak smile on your face, “You’d protect me if anything happened, right?”

Silence again. You stepped out from the counter, and made your way back to the mop to continue cleaning- one eye constantly watching around yourself now. And, you made a small noise in the back of your throat too, as you glanced up.

“Oh, hey- you fell over again,” and then, just as quietly, you straightened Ghostface back out. Just like before. An uneasy smile on your face. And two sets of eyes watching you, the rest of your shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phone: exists  
Ghostface: it’s free real estate


	3. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your ears strained against the near silence, the song crackling and dying in your throat, like a smothered campfire. No one was in the store, last you checked. But there had been a clatter.

The next day, you told Mr. Young about what had happened. It felt like you were confessing to some kind of horrible secret when you did- maybe it was your fault, maybe he wouldn't believe you, maybe you were overreacting. But, Jake only listened, and nodded. He quietly swapped out the old phone for a new one, one with a caller ID display, cordless. You knew how much he loved the old phone, and tried to protest, but he just shook his head and gave you the night off. 

The day after, you came into work, as usual. A certain trepidation in your step, for certain, but it was fine. You were fine. You weren’t going to let a stranger get under your skin so deeply, so even if you weren’t fine, you would be. 

You stepped behind your counter, as usual, and unlike usual, you turned on the old CCTV on the counter, letting it frizzle to life to show the security camera monitor, the black and white fuzziness comforting in it’s nostalgia. Mr. Young had brought it out for you, and, it seemed he’d also moved Michael and Ghostface around a little. Now, you had to fully step around the counter to see Ghostface, whereas Myers was only an arm’s length away. You smiled at that. 

“All set up for a quiet night in,” you reached out and jostled Michael a little, before settling in behind the counter to watch the door. No rain today, but the clouds were gray and stretching ever onwards, a lonely march across the horizon that sucked the color from everything. You watched swirls of leaves rush down the street, your head in your hand, waiting for customers. No one ever came in on Tuesday, though. Not this late. Still, there was the rare person, here and there, and you’d just finished ringing up and waving goodbye to Mrs. MacTavish when the phone rang.

And rang.

You turned to it, and held your breath, until you saw the name ‘Jake Young’ listed as the caller ID. Your hands ghosted through the motions of twirling the cord as you picked it up from the receiver, your voice full of genuine cheer, as opposed to the sickly sweet honey that you usually used. 

“Mr. Young!” you greeted- maybe a little too enthusiastically. Who cared. You were just glad it was him, and also, maybe a little touched that he genuinely cared enough to check up on you. You always were.

“_Hey, kiddo! How are you?_” Jake asked with actual concern, as opposed to required routine. You leaned into the phone more.

“Good! Good. Only two customers so far, uhm… Mr. Barnes and Mrs. MacTavish,” you glanced out the window, “‘S windy outside. I don’t think we’ll have many people today.”

“_Well, you can always close the store early if no one else comes in,” _he seemed to shrug on the other end. There was a moment of silence, before he stopped dancing around the edges, “_So… did that guy call back again?”_

You chewed your lip, “No,” and you resisted the urge to add, ‘not yet’. Maybe he wouldn’t. Hopefully.

“_You can hang up on him if he calls again. Block his number if you need to. If he tries anything- call me, or, call the cops if you need_,” Mr. Young reminded, and then continued, “_And you know where we keep the out of package knives, if you need them- oh, and-”_

“It’s alrig- it’s alright,” you stated, then softer, “I got it. Thanks, though.”

_“I know. I’m just worried.”_

“I know.”

_ “I’ll call back later, if I can.”_

“Okay.”

_ “And Quentin wants you to come over for lunch with us on Sunday. Don’t forget.”_

“‘I know. Bye, dad.”

“_Goodbye. Be safe.”_

You hung up the phone with a beep. Still, there was a smile on your face, fond. It was times like this that made you happy that Mr. Young was your family and did genuinely care about your well being- even if he was sometimes a worrywart. The remnants of the smile helped carry you through some of the more boring parts of cleaning the store, until you unpacking a case of screwdrivers to go on the shelf, quietly tapping a tune in tempo with the rain drops in the bucket nearby. 

“Buuum, bum, buuuum bum,” one box, two box, three box, blue box- blue box? Oh, that one goes to the left. You shuffled over and placed it down, moving back-

_Clatter_

And stopped. Silence. Your ears strained against the near silence, the song crackling and dying in your throat, like a smothered campfire. No one was in the store, last you checked. But there had been a clatter. You slowly inched towards the counter, keeping your eyes open wide the entire time, until your back pressed against the counter. From there, you quickly turned your head to the security feed, and stared.

Nothing. Everything in place. Nobody was in the store, and no one was outside. You exhaled- maybe something had just fallen loose over time-

And then you paused and tilted your head. Just a little, left, then right. 

Ghostface wasn’t where you’d left him. Or where Mr. Young had left him, rather. No, he was- he further back. Against the wall still, but more towards the storeroom. Much more. You blinked, then narrowed your eyes, inhaling like steel and straightening up. Then, you turned around, and walked towards him with a deliberate slowness, each step waxing between uncertain and uneasy. You rounded the shelf, and then, stopped again. Because he wasn’t where the camera said he was either. He was back at his usual spot. Hunched over. There was nothing and no one around, except a little trail of hay on the ground that ended abruptly, and the smell of maple in the air. You felt a chill. 

“Hey- hey,” you whispered, rickety and shaky, smile rotted inside, “How’d you get over here, huh?”

You gently sat him up again, the hay stabbing at you, his eyes watching you. When you leaned in, you felt something like a breath on the back of your neck- but it was just the AC. Still, you stepped back quicker than before, you hands ghosting the black fabric once to smooth it. You nodded to no one in particular, and then abruptly turned and left. To the counter again. Michael was watching you, like always, and you took a moment to just stand there. Fake as he was, it made you feel safer. 

“Psychologists would have a field day,” you murmured, leaning beside Myers. The moment felt more important than it should’ve been: things or memories or ideas, standing with your eyes closed and fabric bunched up in your hands and something else, pressing in around you, like a question or a prayer. Like slow dancing and cliff diving and fresh grass, plucked in handfuls during recess, the smell of boxes being opened after years when you’d promised them only a day. What was it? You suddenly opened your eyes, gasping for air, everything exactly as it was and had been and would be, but for your heaving breaths, eyes darting around in confusion. Whatever the moment was, it came and went just as quickly, and you were left there, mouth parted slightly as if you could ask what or why. Nothing. 

“What- what the fuck,” was all you managed, in a breathy tone, before you blinked your eyes harshly and shook it all away. You spaced out too much as it was already- you had to get back to work. So you pushed off the counter, and went to find what had fallen in the store earlier. It only took one lap around the store before you identified the fallen can of oil, and it was placed onto the shelf from where it had dropped. You stood back up. 

_Ting_

The doorbell to the store rang. You perked up and hurried over, waving, “Hello! Welcome to…”

No one was there. Your smile died a rictus death, and you stood there, watching the door still firmly shut. 

“Is someone here?” you asked as you spun around, slowly- would it be better or worse if there was a reply? The sky had gotten darker again, the clouds swallowing every bit of light up but stubbornly refusing to let go of even a single droplet of rain. The scent of maple smelled acrid now, in a way you couldn’t describe. You took a step back-

Falling. Onto the ground. You screamed without meaning to, surprise and fear, slamming into the tiles on your side and taking a moment to gasp in pain. Water on the floor. Water on the floor? The aging fluorescent lights shone overhead, and you carefully pushed yourself onto your side, catching sight of the bucket, overturned on the floor. Your mind swum in circles for a moment as you pulled yourself up, blinking.

“Bucket?” you said simply, reaching out and setting it back up with a deeply uncertain expression. W- had you backed into it just now? You could’ve sworn it was upright earlier. You’d missed it then, on accident, you must have. 

_Or maybe something is in here with you._

The little voice that you were trying to ignore was getting harder and harder to ignore. That constant murmur of apprehension, just at the back of your mind, snipping and edging. Why did that can fall? Why was Ghostface moved? Why the bucket, the door, the everything? You badgered it down as best you could, but the paranoia remained, a cackling little thing that cooed, _this is how people die in horror movies._

You ignored the feeling of eyes on the back of your head as you walked back to the counter. Stiffly stepped, rather. Nearly a crawl of a pace, and you calmly stood as tall as you could, and watched the door. Mostly the door. You stared at Michael for a moment, before nudging him closer, smiling, and then turning to the CCTV monitor.

The next moment, you were rushing over the counter, to the backroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s happenninnnnnggg


	4. Lovesick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Make Your Last Breath Count.”
> 
> The phone rang again. Your eyes went wide like dinner plates, because it was the same number. The breath caught in your lungs and your throat suddenly felt dry and raw.

People die in horror movies for dumb reasons. Chasing after the killer, screaming “who’s there?”, going upstairs when they should have gone out the front door. You loved horror movies; you watched them on dark nights, and you laughed when characters died from their obvious mistakes.

So why were you running straight for the backroom, when you’d seen a dark figure go in? You couldn’t say. You didn’t know. But something had pushed you after them, and you grabbed the pocket knife from your pocket, held it out like a prayer, and charged into the dark. One hand slammed into the light switch and then you were pointing the knife out, a snarl of fear and uncertainty on your face. 

“Who’s there?” you demanded. Strike two for you. Or maybe it was strike three, since you’d gone into the room when you should have just left. A bubbling sort of hysteria reached through your throat, and it made you want to retch, cold acid crawling under your skin. Still, you kept the knife out, and you slowly began to walk into the room. It was dark- more sinister than usual, the shadows wheedling and keening in the near silence. The lone lightbulb, dangling overhead. Your breathing, short and shallow with each step inwards. 

The dark figure you swore (you swore) you’d seen wasn’t here. Not even the faintest sign of them- but you knew what you’d seen on the monitor. Something cloaked in darkness, walking into the store room. It was as though they’d disappeared completely. You stared at everything, looked it over with a critical, paranoid gaze, but there was nothing and no one. You were alone, with that horrible feeling that, maybe you weren’t as alone as you hoped. It felt like your breath would mist into the air at any moment. You held a frozen stance, waiting, listening.

Listening-

_BRRRRNG_

The phone rang. Even from a room away, you jolted, the sound muted like drowning in a bathtub but still sharp and ringing. You rushed out of the room and back to the counter, just barely catching the phone on it’s fourth ring, knife still in hand.

“Hello, Young’s Hardware, how can I help?” your voice was slightly breathless, and you leaned heavily on the counter without meaning to, one eye glued to the CCTV monitor.

“_Hello again,_” greeted the man from before. Your prickly cheer lodged in your throat like paste. You tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t settle on one, and you must’ve been silent for too long, because he spoke again, “_I wanted to call to apologize_.”

“Apologize?”

“_For scaring you. I’m sorry. It must have been very scary._”

You cleared your throat, and exhaled as well, “Oh, well, it’s- well, it’s alright,” you lied. Maybe he had misspoke and you really had overreacted. But that didn’t feel quite right. Still, you couldn’t find it in yourself to hang up on him now- despite your own inner protests, you remained, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“_I just want to talk to you._”

“T- to talk to me?”

“_That’s right. It’s Halloween season, after all, so... do you like scary movies?”_

You shifted nervously, “Yes- well, a few.”

“_What’s your_ favorite _scary movie?_”

“I…” you stopped twirling the knife around, recognition sparking in your mind mixing with denial. The blade cut into your palm for a moment.

“_You should put that knife away. You might hurt yourself._”

Your eyes went wide as what he said sunk in- you looked down at the knife in your hands, and then frantically looked back up, the blood draining from your face. You barely held onto the phone but not by much, and you let out a shaky parody of a voice, “I’m sorry sir, but I have to go now. Goodbye.”

“_Don’t hang u-”_

You hung up with a beep that belayed the panic that slowly started to consume you, as you frantically looked around the store to try and find where he was- if he could see you, that meant he was somewhere nearby. The CCTV showed nothing. Really; it showed nothing at all. There was static eating most of the screen, and you took in an empty breath, trying to jostle the TV back into focus, gaze snapping around the store. He could see you. He could see you- he could see you before, but you’d ignored it, and he could see you now for sure-

The phone rang again. Your eyes went wide like dinner plates, because it was the same number. The breath caught in your lungs and your throat suddenly felt dry and raw, and you scrambled away from the phone like the plague, sliding down the wall and onto the ground. It rang. And it rang. And it didn’t stop, even as your back pressed against the counter, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

“Please- please, leave me alone, please-” you begged in a whisper. But the ringing didn’t stop. And even worse; the phone suddenly clicked, as though you’d answered.

“_Why did you hang up on me?_”

You didn’t dare say a word.

“_I know you’re there,_” an inhale, “_I can see you. I can see you hiding behind the counter._”

You stifled your whimper by biting down on your hand, but only barely. 

“_This reminds me of a scary movie I once watched. But, you like scary movies; I bet you already know it,_” he laughed, then serious, “_The lead dies at the end of that one, too_.”

**_CRASH_**

One of the display windows shattered. You screamed from your spot on the ground, the glass flying outwards, and the phone laughed and laughed until you slammed the end call button and grabbed it, vaulting the counter, running for the storeroom. He was out front- or maybe he was in the store. The phone shook in your hands as you slammed the storeroom door shut behind yourself, locking it, shoving a chair against it. Then, you clamped down on the terrified sounds in your throat as you pulled up your phone- the police, call them, or-

The phone rang. You let out a muffled shriek of dread and nearly dropped it, until you recognized the caller ID, Jake Young. The spike of relief was so sharp that you nearly sobbed, and you pressed answer, putting it up to your ear.

“Dad, oh God please- he’s here, someone’s here-”

“_Oh, I’m sorry. Were you expecting someone else?_” the man on the phone laughed- the man with the California voice, the man with the voice like knives and dying embers and muted rain. You didn’t drop the phone, but you did drop yourself, falling to the cold tiled floor, stumbling into a fallen box and a shelf, the metal pressing into your back.

“What do you want from me?!” you demanded with a crackling sob, “Leave me alone! Just leave me alone!”

“_I want you. I can see you right now- you’re so scared. You’re on the floor by the door, aren’t you?_” he whispered, “_I want to kill you. That’s what Halloween is all about, right? Being afraid? Isn’t this scary?_”

“No- no-”

“_But I thought you liked scary movies. You even have your own little Michael by the counter here,_” there was the sound of something shifting, and you fought against a surge of strange anger that he was hurting Myers- when your own life was in danger, yet here you were, and it made you laugh in that hysterical way that spoke of cold rot in your insides, nothing left but terror.

“This isn’t- no, no, please,” and you sobbed into a snarl of pure horror, pure fear and desperation, “Fuck you! F- fuck you!”

“_Won’t you smile for me? Come on, just one smile- something for the picturebook_,” and when there was no reply except for your sobs, he added in a horrifying tone, “_You know, no one’s going to stop me. You’re all mine._”

There was a tap on the frosted glass of the storeroom door. You looked up, and there was a shadow there, a flash of white, familiarity in the stretch of darkness across the face. It was-

The sound of glass shattering again. For a single, horrifying moment, you thought it was the glass of the door breaking, and you let out a terrible scream, dropping the phone as you scrambled back. But, no- it was something outside. And it was coming from the phone. There was a noise of surprise from the man on the phone, and then a sudden grunt of effort, and you held your breath. There was a struggle- that meant someone was here. Someone was here! You did sob that time, a genuine set of sobs, messy and ugly, at the sound of a fight, right outside the door. It went on for seconds or minutes, and then the sound of the phone being cut off. Nothing. Silence. Your own breathing, and the hiccups of sobs that slipped from your throat. You’d kicked the phone across the room earlier, and now, you were too afraid to even go near it to call for help. All you could do was curl in on yourself and hold the knife out, like it would stop anyone. Like it could save you. 

It felt like minutes or hours passed before you heard the faintest snatches of voices, but in the silence, you couldn’t be sure. And then- the doorknob jiggled. You let out another terrified yell, short and clipped, as you clamped down on it, letting it die into sobs again. The door shook once, twice, before someone shouted through the silence.

“I think they’re in here!” the sound of a commanding but calming voice. A flashlight, shining through the cracks, “Hang on! This is the police, we’re going to get you out!”

It was a familiar voice. It was, it was familiar, comforting. It was-

“Quentin?” you croaked, slowly lowering the knife. Still shaking, and your voice was as tremulous as you were, but you managed louder, scratchy but pleadingly hopeful, “Dad?” 

There was a pause in the movement outside. A split second, and then the reply, “Pancake?”

The dumb, annoying nickname that you always groaned about, just the sound of it now made you let out a relieved sob, any attempts to reply just stolen away by each crashing breath, as you set the knife down entirely and tried to push up from the ground. The frantic sound of movement outside continued, doubled down with the addition of barking orders. Still, you could see that Quentin’s silhouette was still there, unmoving, staying with you.

“It’s going to be alright,” he promised, “They’re gone. Can you unlock the door for us?”

“I don’t- I-” you clutched the wall, unmoving, before painstakingly pulling yourself towards the door with trembling uncertainty, adrenaline fueled desperation and retaliation with nowhere to go, “Yes. Okay.”

You less moved the chair out of the way and more shoved it, and you had to grip the doorknob to be able to unlock it, but the moment you did, you managed to step to the side and cling the wall, letting the door swing open. There, wreathed in the fluorescent light of the store, was Quentin- with a contingent of additional officers, all fanned out around the store. Quentin instantly darted forward, just as you noticed that you’d started to stumble and fall, and the instant his arms wrapped around you, you started to cry. Not the terrified sobs or snarls, but, just warbling cries, into his shoulder. 

“It’s alright- we’ve got you, it’s gonna be okay now, I promise,” Quentin carefully maneuvered you through the throng of officers. Through a bleary haze, you looked around the store- took in the sight of the destroyed shelves, glass on the floor, a smashed phone, and, Michael and Ghostface thrown to opposite sides. But your gaze was frozen on Ghostface; frozen, looking into his dark eyes.

“No- no, no, no!” you clung to Quentin, suddenly desperate, “You- get rid of him. Tell Mr. Young to get rid of him- anywhere but here, please, please-”

If Quentin understood what you meant or not, he simply nodded, leading you to the medic on site where an orange blanket was quickly wrapped around your shoulders and the cuts that you hadn’t noticed were tended to. Still, you stared at Quentin, lost and afraid. He gave you as much of a reassuring smile as he could.

“It’ll be alright. It’s over now.”

But your attention had shifted back to the store, back to Ghostface, laying on the ground. He was facing you. All other sounds in the world seemed to dull, the lights murky. Quentin’s words seemed soft and distant now. Vacant. You mouthed them again, but they seemed weaker.

No. You wanted it to be over- you wanted to believe him. But as you stared at that white mask, you weren’t sure if you could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Ghostface is so much fun. I get to mix the creep with the implications


	5. Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just yourself, and a slowly growing sense of relief. That, maybe it was over. Maybe it had been a fluke. Maybe, maybe, maybe- and mixing with it, a strange, acrid feeling of anticipation.

Questions. A hundred questions. You felt like they lasted forever, stretching on and on. The slow ebb of adrenaline leaving your system left you tired and agitated, and the constant probing and prodding made you exhausted. The cold, autumn wind seemed to chew through the blanket wrapped around your shoulders- and yet, the questions persisted.

“I told you; I don’t know who attacked me,” you whispered, and maybe it was a little bit of a lie, but what could you say? The idea of the truth? They’d think you were crazy. You thought it was crazy. But you’d recognized that voice- lighthearted, curious. Mocking. Cruel. California nights and blood. The shadow across the mask. How would anyone believe you, if you didn’t even want to believe it yourself?

“That’s alright. We’re checking the security footage right now,” Quentin assured, “Anything that you remember at all could help us. You mentioned the Ghostface mask?”

Laughter on the phone. Taunting. He wanted to tear you open and see what your insides looked like. You squeezed your eyes shut and huddled in on yourself more.

“I don’t know.”

The officer beside Quentin looked like he wanted to protest, but Quentin cut him off, “Okay. We’ll find out who did this, and we’ll get them. You’re safe now.”

_No, you’re not, _that little voice cooed, _he wants you. He’ll have you._

You simply blinked.

“Can I go home now?” 

Quentin glanced up, “Yes- do you need a ride back?”

“No, no,” and you shakily stood up, still holding onto the blanket. Every breath of air seemed to sting your throat from where you’d been screaming, rubbed raw and throbbing with each heartbeat. The cut on your palm still stung. The fear in your heart hadn’t ebbed at all. The breeze tussled your hair, and you bit your lip, looking off into some point of distance. 

“Jake gave you tomorrow off, and however long you need,” Quentin added in a gentle tone, and you nodded, already walking towards your car. Your gaze was stuck on Michael, though, still inside the store. The officers had assumed that whoever had attacked you had simply trashed the store before leaving on their own. Just like how they’d smashed the phone. How lucky, they said, that you’d brought the other phone into the room to call the police.

You didn’t tell them that you hadn’t been the one to call them. Abruptly, you tore your eyes away from Michael, and then walked the rest of the way to your car. The absolute silence as you sat inside it, hands barely on the wheel, staring off into space.

You drove home in that same silence. And you slept in that same silence. Every door and window locked, hiding under your covers, dreaming of white masks and knives in the darkness.

The next day, you woke up feeling almost drained. Emotionally, for sure, but also physically, your throat scratchy and dry, the few cuts all scabbed over. You coughed a few times and blinked sleep from your eyes, then stared out the window. Birds and trees and, everything as normal. 

“Not sure what I expected,” you muttered. Maybe that it had been some kind of horrible nightmare? But, no. You simply sat there for a moment, taking it all in, and trying to concentrate on the swirl of chaotic emotions, all fighting for your attention. Anxiety, fear, desolation, anger, and oddly enough, intrigue. Intrigue. You stared back out the window, but this time, lightly tapping your hand on your leg.

“Michael Audrey Myers,” you whispered, and then trailed off, the song unfinished, the question hanging in the air. You wondered, what exactly you were hoping for. What did you want? What did you expect? There were drying scabs and scratchy bruises and a question, maybe a fear, digging into your skull.

Someone had tried to kill your last night. Someone else had stopped them. You suddenly smiled, but it was bitter, a quirked eyebrow, “And I bet the security footage won’t work, either.”

Horror movies were always like that, after all. 

You sat for a little while longer, before getting up, getting changed. Breakfast came and went, and so did lunch, and all the while, not a single phone call- no eyes on the back of your neck. Just yourself, and a slowly growing sense of relief. That, maybe it was over. Maybe it had been a fluke. Maybe, maybe, maybe- and mixing with it, a strange, acrid feeling of anticipation.

As you sat on your couch, you stared out the window again, watching the sky. It was almost sunset, that golden period where the sky was gradually shifting into different colors, but the sun stubbornly refused to set. It looked vaguely purpley, and the blue of the sky was muted, toned down, just a few flecks of clouds looming on the horizon. The promise of a storm, maybe. Still, you savored the moment of calm, knees curled up to your chest, hair drifting into your face ever so slightly.

And then, there was a knock. You shifted to turn to the front door, and there it was again, twice, decisive. You rolled off the couch and trudged towards it; a police officer, maybe, or one of your friends here to heckle you. Just to be safe, though, you carefully peered through the window beside it. A look to the left, then to the right, and to your confusion, there was no one there.

Instead of going outside to check, you quietly decided to just turn around and ignore it. Because while you may have joked about it being a horror movie, you also knew exactly how people died in those- and in real life. Paranoid, yes, but, well. 

“The man who showers with a knife is a fool every day but one,” you whispered. So you sat back down on the sofa and went back to reading, though keeping your pocket knife out, just in case, and your phone in your hands.

For ten minutes, nothing. You were willing to chalk it up to a nervous salesman at that rate. But at the eleventh minute, there was the knocks again. Harsher this time. You furrowed your brow and quickly hurried over, slowing down to make yourself nearly silent as you peaked out. The only sound was your dishwasher, and your clipped breathing. In the distance, if you strained, you could hear a siren. No other sounds, and more importantly, there was no one outside.

You went back to the couch. You didn’t even pretend to read now, instead, staring directly at the door, wondering if you should call the police. What would you even say? Officer, someone was knocking on my door and running away. Shoot them. Still, you shifted anxiously in your seat, and that strange, acrid anticipation burbled in your throat, sour and rotten. Each moment seemed longer than the last.

Five minutes. And then the knocks- angry. You rushed over, sliding on your socks to just barely catch a snatch of something dark, branches shifting with what must have been a breeze. The vicious part of your mind demanded that you rush outside, find out what was happening. You forced it back down, struggled and subdued it, and instead, leaned against the wall, and decided to wait. The next time they knocked, you’d see who it was right away. 

So you waited. You pressed your nails into your palms, and mouthed silent lyrics that still strained your throat. A piece of lunch was stuck in your teeth; you fiddled with it between your drifting attention, the feeling of your chest rising and falling. Somehow, it felt like the waiting was the worst part. The space between action and inaction. 

And then-

A floorboard in the house creaked. You paused. Time seemed to move in slow motion, as you managed half a step forward, shifted your stance just slightly to the left. When the knife burst through the window behind you, barely missing your throat, you blearily realized that that shift had just saved your life. And then, the glass shattering, flying down around you- slicing into your skin and you opened your mouth to scream in surprise, when a pair of arms wrapped around your neck. The sound cut off. But you weren’t going to just fall and die, and you threw your weight forward, half into a fall, dragging whoever it was into the house with you. The flash of white in the darkness of a mask, black cloak, shining blade, and that terrible familiar face: Ghostface. You struggled to throw him off, and you weren’t sure what to do- so you stabbed your pocket knife directly into his leg. He gave a surprised sound of pain, and then released you, letting you scramble back and cut your exposed arms on the glass shards. There was a moment, frozen in time, as you both looked at one another: your face of shock, and, you imagined his was of snarling glee. The pull of your lips and the curve of your brow said, “it’s you,” and the set of his shoulders said, “Hello again.”

_So this is how it ends_, a part of you whispered. The knives were on the other side of the room. No one else was around. They’d find your body tomorrow morning and there would end your story. Sold as a cold case in magazines and forgotten. Killed by- killed by a fictional slasher, made real. Another part of you snarled and thrashed in defiance, and that’s what fueled you to get up off the ground, to glare with anger and desperation, even as you were backed into a corner. Ghostface, meanwhile, just watched you. He plucked your pocket knife from his leg, glanced at it, then casually tossed it aside, tilting his head. One step. Two. Closing in on you. 

“Before I kill you…” he drawled, “You never did tell me your favorite scary movie.” 

You pressed your leg back somewhat, brought your arm up to your chest, eyes suddenly catching a flash of white behind Ghostface, and you reply was slightly cracking, like a great iceberg breaking apart, “Halloween.”

“Really?” Ghostface pressed forward, and the gloves on his hands were cold on your arm, in contrast to his almost warm breath that spilled onto your neck, “See, I always liked Scream the most.”

“But the bad guy dies at the end of that one, you know,” you whispered with a stutter, and then, dropped. Ghostface swung the knife in surprise, but you bolted through the space of his arms, skidding across the ground and into a nearby wall. It was enough, though. Enough to watch as Michael Myers slammed into Ghostface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all your comments- I read every single one and they fuel me. Like kerosene on a campfire 
> 
> Also, hey, it’s Friday the 13th this Friday. And, a harvest moon to boot. Catch me hanging out in the woods watching horror movies while I wait to be stabbed


	6. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You inhaled and exhaled shudderingly, fistfuls of blue coveralls gripped fiercely in your blood hands, and you almost didn’t register the hand setting down on your back.

In the half lighting of the room, there was chaos. The sun cast strange shadows, the black lines of the shades falling across the room and your face, like sectioning off parts. A vague, hysterical part of your brain tried to understand what was happening in front of you, and you could almost pick it apart. Michael, blue and almost ethereal, the gleam of his knife in the air as he slashed down at Ghostface. And Ghostface, made orange by the strange colored shadows, barely dodging out of the blow. You couldn’t see either of their faces, but you could read the lines of their bodies, and that spoke of rage and brutality. Michael swiped to the left, and then up, and all the while, you stayed pressed against the wall- watching, staring. 

“Michael,” you mouthed, feeling the press of rawness of your throat, the persistent and dull scratchy pain. The scene didn’t seem real. The lightning of the room, the way they moved and fought. But the pain in your arms and your neck, those made you realize that this was real. That this was happening in this moment- had been happening for days, only now coming to a head, with two slashers fighting for blood with you at the center. A fucked up laugh escaped your throat, at the absurdity of the situation, and it turned into a surprised sound as Ghostface slammed into the wall beside you, paused to notice you, then jumped you with something like a yell or a roar. 

Down. You didn’t scream, but it was almost a scream, and you held out your hand in a frantic attempt to block the knife. There was a split second of sudden, sharp pain, and you realized that you had blocked the knife: with your hand. You didn’t even have time to react, because then he yanked the knife back, and you kicked him in the stomach as you rolled to the side. The words “Get away!” tore from your throat and then Michael was there, grabbing Ghostface and then sending him crashing into the coffee table, splintering wood flying across the room. You forced your attention away as you struggled to stand up, the fresh wound of your hand throbbing and bleeding with a sensation almost of agony- and it would only get worse. The knives, you had to get to the knives. You stumbled across the shards of glass, feeling them dig into your feet, and then, you reached up and jerked the knife out and into your hands. The blood coated the handle, slippery and warm, and you inhaled the scent of copper and pain, before turning around. Just in time to watch Myers catch a blade to the ribs. Your grip on your knife tightened and you let out a horrified snarl, slamming forward and into Ghostface to throw him off.

Ghostface gave a grunt, then a noise of surprise, and you gripped your knife so hard you hand ached as you slashed it into his arm. He relitalied with a heave, and you dodged out of the way, and it was motion that you almost couldn’t decipher, the animalistic desperation to survive and bloodlust in your veins. Your vision blurred, from the pain and the fear and everything, mixing together at once. Behind you, you heard Michael stand up and felt him loom over you, and his presence made you stop, gasping for breath and feeling blood drip from your mouth. Ghostface paused. His gaze seemed to pierce you, blood splashed across the white of his mask, his breathing heavy in the air.

“Love ‘em while you can,” he gave a wet laugh, backing up. Laughing. You made to jump at him, but then stumbled, caught by a hand on your arm, and then Michael strode forward and, with one single powerful grip, yanked Ghostface up by his chest, and then sent him flying through the living room window. The glass shattered, catching and scattering the dying light of the sun, and below, the sound of landing, a scramble that faded into footsteps into nothing.

And then there was silence. Blood dribbled from the corner of your lips, and your hands were shaking, dropping the knife, energy draining from you like the blood onto the ground. Your breathing sounded like it was rattling. Michael, somehow still standing after all of this, and the fact that he was here at all made you shift again. You turned to him. Through the shattered glass, the autumn wind felt cold, along with the rapidly setting sun- spilling rays of red sunlight through the room, staining your skin that same hue and making you look like some gruesome murderer. A matched set, a part of you whispered. Michael’s hand was on your arm.

“Michael,” you finally managed to croak. You took a stumbling step forward, crashing into him, your eyes open wide and disbelieving as you gripped his chest. He was real- he was real, not just someone with a cruel sense of humor and a mask, but it was him, the smell of autumn and the predator stance. The blood from your hands was staining the blue fabric, from his wounds too, from the dirt and the ash and whatever else he’d carried with him. Still, he didn’t move. You inhaled and exhaled shudderingly, fistfuls of the coveralls gripped fiercely in your ruined hands, and you almost didn’t register the hand setting down on your back. Almost mechanically, but light. The world felt like it was half real, and you blinked.

“I- bleeding. We’re bleeding,” you realized, “I should… no. I need to call the police first, I,” and then you backed away, throwing cushions and blankets from your couch as you searched for the phone, “Where-” there. Found it. It was cool on your hands, or maybe that was blood loss, and you held it up and then looked at Michael for a moment. He was just staring at you. The phone in your hands, and uncertainty, a clamminess on your palms and dry sandpaper in your throat. Who had ever said he had the Devil’s eyes, you wondered, when they were so blue and alive? You held the phone tighter, “I need to tell them-” and already your mind was racing with how you could handle this. Hide Michael, somehow- lie, if you had to, keep him safe (keep him safe? Shouldn’t they have been keeping you safe from him?). You waited for him to nod or protest, but he didn’t do anything. Just kept watching you. You shakily dialed 911, rose the phone up to your ear, and-

And you weren’t sure what to expect. That smooth California voice, haunting, echoing from the tinny speakers, “_Missed me already?_”

You inhaled, then clenched your teeth, the blood in your mouth acrid, staring at the phone with a disbelieving sort of horror. The phone. No, no…

“_Yes. Don’t worry, I can still see you right now. Waiting for me. I bet-_”

You threw the phone into the wall, watching the cheap plastic fracture and crack from the force. Whether it broke it or not, the call abruptly cut off, and you felt some invisible, smothering presence leave the room with it. You simply stared at the shattered phone and bled. Your eyes went wide with determination, and absolute fear.

“We need to go,” you croaked. The glass shards in your arms and feet burned with each motion, but you had to ignore them. There wasn’t any time- you had to go, “His mask. We- destroy his mask. That has to work,” you stammered. That frantic terror rushing through your veins, frigid ice and nothing else. You moved before you realized what was happening, running into the kitchen and grabbing the pocket knife from the ground, cutting into your palm as you carelessly shoved it into your pocket. If you were fast enough, you could stop this. That’s how it worked, right? It had to. _It had to_. 

“Michael,” you turned to him, breathless, but he was already right behind you, and you let out a choked gasp that died at the edges, surprised fear that you tried to calm. In that moment, covered in red crimson dying light and drying blood, he looked every bit the predator you knew he could be. And for a moment, you wondered why he didn’t act the part. His knife was in his hand, there was blood on his mask, but he looked at you with something else. Your voice crackled, as your forced out, “Come on.”

And so he followed. You shoved the door open with your good shoulder, keys in one hand, a pair of shoes dangling in the other, and you sprinted down the way towards your car. Each movement just brought fresher waves of hurt, until it was agony, glass shards embedded in your flesh and wounds throbbing in tandem. You pulled open the door and fell inside, each breath leaving you in a wheeze, and you looked up to see Michael there with you, in the passenger seat, waiting. You wondered, faintly, how’d you be able to get blood out of the seats, and gave a laugh at the thought. Too much of a laugh, actually, and it seized your lungs in coughs. Michael’s hand shifted like he wanted to stop you. Did that make this funnier? You felt like you were breaking apart. Everything was so simple a week ago.

Still, you managed to start up the car, the blood crusting your clothes, sweat and fear mixing together. Then, you drove onwards, into the twilight of the night, to Young’s Hardware store.

If there was one saving grace, it was that you could say that at least it wasn’t night time yet. The purple light of twilight made the world bright but soft, the ever encroaching darkness at the edges. The swirling colors of autumn leaves brushed around you, as you shot down the road, weaving around the few cars that were unfortunate enough to be out right now. You wondered how this scene looked to them: Michael Myers, covered in blood, and you, equally as blood soaked, driving down the road with terror in your eyes and in your heart. Was your life a horror movie? Then what did that make you? You inhaled then exhaled, rattling little sound, and you had to talk, give yourself something to focus on.

“Was it you?” you rasped. Your grip was white-knuckle on the steering wheel, and the stab wound on your hand had graduated from painful to agonizing with each passing moment, but you continued, “Did you call them?” you waited for a reply- one that you knew might never come. It hadn’t before, what would change now? But, still, you glanced to Michael, and saw him staring right back. That same curiosity in his eyes, something else. The smile you gave was small and it hurt, as you looked back to the road.

“Because, if you hadn’t called the police then. I, I would’ve died,” you swung the wheel to the left, the feeling of the car skidding slightly through the turn, “You saved me. I think. More than once.”

“Why did you do it?” 

There wouldn’t be a reply for that one. You didn’t expect one. And you didn’t expect him to set his hand on your arm, the rough feeling of his palm just grazing the injured skin. It was an answer, you thought, but you weren’t sure what it meant. It didn’t clear up anything, actually- maybe it made things worse. It certainly didn’t help the hundred thoughts all fighting for your attention at once, all focusing on that slight touch. The reassurance behind it. Your lips quirked, and a fresh trickle of blood dripped down.

And then there was no more time for words, because you’d arrived. It was darker now. Purple had given way for indigo, dusty and scrawled with the faintest of stars, clouds with the promise of rain at the horizon. The hardware store was closed, rendered dead without you as the night worker, and from the outside looking in, it looked oddly sinister in your fearful mind. Shadows waiting. You looked over to Michael, and found yourself unable to speak once more. 

So you didn’t. You simply turned off the car, stepped out, and plucked the knife from your pocket. Your keys shook in the air as you walked to the front door, the Shape looming right behind you as you unlocked it and pushed it open. So close, that you could imagine his breath on your shoulder, and you closed your eyes for a moment, the smell of maple washing over you. Familiarity. Well, almost; Michael wasn’t usually following you around. 

Whatever had brought them here- you didn’t know. Maybe it was like those stories you used to read as a kid, with the fictional being appearing from the book or the screen. Or maybe it was a curse. You were banking, mostly, on it being a curse. Because curses could be burned away- that meant Ghostface could be burned away. So you walked forward, into the dark store, Michael right at your back, and hoped.

“Still trashed,” you noted in a whisper, as you lightly kicked aside a pile of fallen screwdrivers, slowly picking your way through the chaos towards the back room, searching for the mask. And searching. You scanned the store, and each shelf, and then, finally, you stepped into the back room. Flicked the single light on overhead. Michael stood guard at the door, and you fanned out, your search growing increasingly frantic.

“Where is it?” you hissed, “Where did he put it?” and you ripped open a box and then threw it aside, slamming your hands into your face and trying to breathe. Couldn’t panic. Don’t panic. You lowered your hands to the table, and then paused, picking up the paper that you’d missed. 

A packing slip. A shipping slip, to California. You felt your vision grew sharp and equally hazy, and that terrifying cold sensation of babbling panic, but rendered silent, despair. A packing slip, mailed earlier this morning, back to California. And there was no mask here, and you’d told him to send Ghostface _away_, and the box was just the right weight to be it- to be sent back to his sister in California. He’d probably thought to surprise you with the good news when you came back to work, but right now, it just made you want to throw up. 

“No,” you mouthed, and then with a fractured sort of desperation, your voice flaking, “No, no- fuck!” and you crushed the paper, turning to Michael, opening your mouth to say something, anything, and nothing came out. You felt the crushing, suffocating sensation of hopelessness fill you. So you just stared at him. 

You didn’t expect him to do anything. It was just you, alone, like always. But then he took a step forward, and then another, until his masked face was looking down at you and he reached out a hand to your face. With a touch that was a mixture of uncertain roughness and cautious hesitation, he tilted your head up to him. His thumb rubbed your cheek, and he just looked at you- what words couldn’t say, his eyes seemed to speak just fine, like the set of his shoulder and tilt of his head. They said, I don’t know what’s wrong but it will be alright. You opened your mouth to say something, but for a silent exchange, that just felt like cheating.

It only made sense that the moment was shattered by the sound of the phone ringing. You jolted forward before you even realized what was happening, and then you were running, consciously running, as the phone clicked like an answer and the sound like a photograph being captured filled the room. Or a body, rotting in reverse. Michael had his knife out, and you knew that Ghostface might be only seconds away, so you ran right up to the storefront window, and mentally apologized as you smashed right through it. Ghostface’s eerie laughter filled the store behind you- just in time, a part of you whispered, and you shot a single look over your shoulder as you wrenched open the car door; watching, as Ghostface stood alone in the store. Just staring at you. You felt your hands go through the motions of starting to drive, and the sound of another car door slamming confirmed that Michael was with you. Squealing tires on pavement, the smell of burnt rubber, and then you were driving off. In the rearview mirror, you saw Ghostface wave.

You turned away. Focused instead on the road. On the ebb of adrenaline, the gentle death of the twilight, of Michael staring at you once more. The packing slip that was thrown onto the floor, the address already memorized in your mind. 

Plan? You had no plan. Your original plan was to call the police, but faced with an undying slasher that wanted you dead, you knew how that would go. Now, your only plan was to get that mask, and burn it in a fire. Or call a priest. Your _plan_ was about one fourth of a plan, and it was based on horror movies and fear. What else could you do? You could only believe that it would work. Only stare out at the seemingly endless road in front of yourself, and whisper, almost hysterically, “Looks like we’re going to California.”

Let’s see the odds: one slasher that was out for blood, versus a hardware store employee who moonlighted as a horror buff, and their new deadly friend.

Well. What was a good horror movie without at least some narrative tension?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo. Things have happened. It was a joy reading all your comments last chapter, and seeing everyone both excited and also out for blood. 
> 
> The next chapter is my favorite chapter I’ve written so far. I think you’ll all like it too.


	7. Neon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael looked at you with knitted brow and the illumination from the dashboard spilled across his face, wreathing him like some kind of neon dream. You’d always been told it was impolite to stare, but in that moment, you wished you could’ve stared forever.

You drove for hours. You drove, as sunset was smothered by darkness and clouds, and you drove through hours of clouds and forest. When the streetlights all began to blur together, and your body wailed in protest, the blood crusted into your hair and the glass shards still stuck in your skin. The pain, though, you’d managed to tune out after a while, because fear was much more potent. Too afraid to stop, because then he might catch you. Too afraid to sleep, because he might be there. It wasn’t until the radio clock whispered 1am that you finally- finally, slowed. The lone gas station and motel, in some sleepy and unnamed town, unimportant except for the fact that it was at least four hundred miles away from home. You pulled the car into the nearest spot, put it into park, and then turned it off. Your eyes were open now through force of will, and the faintest dredges of adrenaline- flaring to life whenever you thought you caught a flash of a white mask on the side of the road. It was always nothing. But you always feared.

You turned to Michael. The weak, yellow lights of the parking lot made the shadows of his mask seem softer, and you made a weak expression, reaching up your good hand to gesture to it.

“Your mask,” you inclined your head to the motel, “You, can’t wear it outside.”

It was bad enough that you were both covered in blood. Workers might click their tongues at the dried blood, imagining it was mud, but not at a Halloween mask. You weren’t stupid enough to try and reach up to take it off yourself, but you did tap your own face, twice, then sleepily let your finger just slide down, landing in your lap as you leaned back against the window. Michael watched you.

“I know you don’t want to,” you whispered. And that was all you said. You didn’t try to force him, or coerce him, or plead with puppy dog eyes. No, you just, tilted your head back to look up at the stars. 

There was silence for a while. The air of the parking lot smelled like old hotdogs on conveyor belts and fields of corn, with rain on the breeze. The faint buzz of the neon motel sign. The shifting sound of latex. You plucked a few shards of glass from your arm, hissing in renewed pain, and almost missed the sound of an exhale. Clearer than before. Clipped. You tilted your head back up, and you forgot how to breathe entirely.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Michael was the same age as you. That different paths in life lead to different worlds. But right now, you looked into his shadowed eyes, took in the shock of curly dark hair, and almost saw yourself back. Something about the moment made the similarities all the more striking. Just two people- similar and different and together now, one breath, two. Michael looked at you with knitted brow and the illumination from the dashboard spilled across his face, wreathing him like some kind of neon dream. You’d always been told it was impolite to stare, but in that moment, you wished you could’ve stared forever. 

A feeling of warmth on your chest brought you back into focus, and you looked down to your bleeding arm, then back up to Michael. Your smile was dog-tired, but it was a hidden sort of smile that you’d always managed around him, and you awkwardly said the first thing you could manage, “Lookin’ good.” 

You wiped your arm on your ruined jacket, grabbing the money from the glove compartment, and then inclined your head to the outside, stepping from the car. Seconds passed. Then, Michael followed. His expression remained the same, but he stayed right behind you, as you filled up the car with gas and fought against sleep with muddled lyrics and scratchy chords. Motes of dust drifted across your vision, and you found yourself spacing out, attention slowly drifting back to the man behind you. Michael’s face was reflected in the rusted metal of the gas station pump, something about the lights making everything seem softer. Evil. Pure evil. Evil, shaped like a man, pretending at being alive; that’s what they always claimed. But right now, all you saw was- was someone tired. Just like you, the set of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. A lifetime of nothingness. 

_This would have been you too,_ the whispered, taunting thought. It could’ve. It would’ve. If you hadn’t left- no. Couldn’t think about that. The numbers on the machine clicked their completion, and you were grateful for the distraction. In went the money, and then you turned your attention to the gas station store, your mouth thin.

“We need to get some stuff from there. Then sleep,” and you said the word sleep like a prayer, looking over to Myers. Even he looked a little exhausted. The troubled expression hadn’t left his face, and you reached out, grabbed his wrist. The crease in his brow lessened, just a little.

And so you went.

The bell above the gas station door jingled, and Michael squeezed your hand with a sharp and crushing intensity- but he didn’t go for his knife. The lights above were harsh, and it smelled like cleaning supplies, the floors somehow still dirty and that vague cloying smell of gasoline and cigarette smoke mixing in. The cashier didn’t look up when you entered. 

Your walk through the store was quick, and constantly followed by Michael. When he wasn’t right at your shoulder, he was standing directly in front of you; always watching with that same intensity, like he didn’t know what to do with you, but he knew you couldn’t leave. You gave him sleepy, lopsided smiles, and piled stuff into his arms. A medical kit. Food. Water. Finally, you found yourself staring at the hair dye kits, shifting slightly on your feet but alertness stubbornly in your eyes. Only auburn hair dye was left. You reached your hand out, hesitated for a moment, then completed the gesture and picked up the box.

If Ghostface was looking for you, that meant other people would be looking for you too. And… they couldn’t find you. Not yet. Not if that meant them dying too. 

So you took the hair dye with what felt like a grim finality, and quietly made your purchases at the counter. The worker didn’t say a single thing, except to direct you to the motel lobby, and in there, you spent the last of your money to buy a single bed room for the night. Michael seemed to glare at the two workers as you left- and you were tired enough that it was funnier than it should have been. The third room on the left of the second floor was where you went, unlocking the door, and then… finally, finally relaxing. It didn’t matter that you had no more money left (and no idea of how to get more), or that you were being hunted by a horrible slasher, or that there was only one bed. No. All that mattered was that, for now, you were as safe as you could get. So for the first time in hours, you let yourself relax. You set the bag of food down with a muted thump, then went to sit down on the bed, where Michael followed.

The silence was nearly absolute. The single lamp in the room drenched everything in warm tones. The fading wallpaper, the creaking springs of the bed, the faintest of unplaceable odor. It reminded you of going on roadtrips as a child. You turned to face Michael, but he had already beaten you to the punch, and a hushed staring contest seemed to go underway. That undercurrent of anxiety prevented it from being anywhere near tranquil, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just, strange. Whenever your eyes would dart around the room, he’d remain, staring. And finally, at a seemingly random point, he suddenly, slowly reached out to your face, finger ghosting your forehead. He pulled it back, and kept it in your vision until you focused and realized that it was fresh blood. One of the cuts must have reopened. With the sudden reminder, all your unattended wounds cried out at once.

“Oh. Right,” you cleared your cracking and dry throat, and then went for the first aid kit and the hair dye, jerking your head to the bathroom in an invitation. Michael wordless stood up and followed.

The bathroom was small for a single person. For two, it could politely be described as intimate. Michael sat on the closed toilet, and you struggled to open the hydrogen peroxide, the bandages piled up on the side of the sink. But after a few minutes, you had your arm laid out, poking around with a pair of tweezers for the smaller shards of glass. Michael held your wrist down every time you twisted in pain, and once the final piece was gone, you were nearly exhausted from the effort- more than you already had been. You held yourself up on the sink, though, even as Michael carefully poured the hydrogen peroxide over the wounds like you’d done. Curses tumbled from your lips and you bit your cheek as he cleaned up your face too- your raw voice hissing and scowling and wheezing the while. By the time the bandages were wrapped, you were the one sitting on the toilet, barely able to stand. Michael’s own wounds seemed to take much less fanfare, a few swipes of antiseptic cloth, some bandages. Throughout the process, he’d glance to you, as if to make sure he was doing it right- when neither of you knew what you were doing, maybe it felt better that way.

But that wasn’t important now. Now, you had your pocket knife in your hands, turning it over and over in your freshly bandaged hand, before handing it to Michael. 

“Just don’t cut me,” you whispered in an almost tired voice, ducking your head forward a little to present your hair to him. If you were going to disappear completely, your hair had to change too. You closed your eyes still, feeling Michael’s hands on the sides of your head, and then, the slow but confident swipe of the blade. You felt, more than saw, the first lock of hair brush past you and fall to the towel on the ground. Another quickly followed. You didn’t care how this looked, just that it was done, and so you diligently waited out the process, before there was a long stretch of nothingness, and you opened your eyes. Michael handed you the blade back, and in the gleaming reflection, you saw yourself. Just familiar enough to be alarming in the differences. But recognizable- and by now, you knew, the hair dye had mixed, and it was time. You looked over to Michael. 

“You’ll need gloves. It’ll stain your hands if you don’t.”

Michael seemed to shrug one shoulder in a half casual motion, in a way that made you smile despite whatever was warring inside you. He grabbed the container of dye and approached you, only for you to blink, then hold up a hand to stop him, quickly struggling out of your shirt and then tossing it to the ground; you didn’t want it stained. For an instant, you felt sharply, coldly exposed, but Michael’s gaze remained the same. Not even shifting to look down, just holding the hair dye container, and waiting for the go ahead. You nodded.

“Alright.”

And so Michael descended. There had been a dye brush in the box, but he’d taken a look at it and ignored it, instead taking a handful of the dye in his hands, and simply spreading it through your hair with his bare hands. His fingers rubbed across your head, careful near your skin, great swathes of red in instants. You shuddered, from the cold, and watched his hands calmly run through your hair, an intense expression on his face. The faint, soothing scratch scratch of his digits working the dye into your short hair. The red dye was staining his fingers, you could already see, and the flecks of it on his wrists. It looked like blood. It might as well have been. You felt as though you’d just committed some terrible murder, staring at the strands of cut hair, at the reflection in the knife that no longer looked like you. If your appearance could become unrecognizable after only so few changes, you wondered what that made you, in the end. The question hung in your exhausted mind, heavy like lead, and in the end, you simply closed your eyes and focused on the feeling of his calloused hands in your hair, stroking back and forth, surprisingly soothing- on how close he was, the occasional breath of hot air drifting across your face, the feeling of his feet pressing against yours. It was a strange intimacy, and yet, you felt like it could last forever. 

But like many things, it ended far too quick. Soon, your hair was a soft orangey red, no trace of the original to be found, and Michael’s hands lingered on your face for only a moment, before he went to wash the dye from his bloodied hands. The minutes of waiting for it to set passed just as fast, and then you were ducking your head under the faucet of the tub, watching the remnants of the dye fade away down the drain, taking your old self with it. One ruined towel later, and you were dry, food and water in your stomach, sitting on the edge of the bed. As before, Michael stared. You’d put your shirt back on, but thrown your pants somewhere into the corner with your shoes. Now, you brought your knees up to your chest, and watched as Michael took off his mechanic jumpsuit. After that, though, he stopped, and looked to you. You looked back. You knitted your brow together and then blinked with some sort of realization.

“You don’t have to undress more, if you don’t want to?” you attempted. He just barely tilted his head, and the furrow of his brow said uncertainty. When was the last time he’d been given a choice? You didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t know either. He looked down at his shirt for a moment, before simply settling on removing his boots. By then, you’d reached over to the light in the room, and quietly turned it off, sliding back down onto the bed and curling in on yourself with some vague sensation of discomfort. The bed dipped as Michael laid down behind you, some unspoken gap of space between the two of you. For a moment, it remained, and in that moment you curled in on yourself more and wondered how you’d ended up here and- and all at once, the uncertainty, the fear, the weakness that you’d hid, it all came crashing back down onto you. You were being hunted, you’d nearly died twice, you were overwhelmed and drowning in terrified anxiety with every moment, your only companion a _fictional slasher_. What if it didn’t work? What if you died like this? Would anyone even care at all? You grabbed at your face and shuddered in silence, and almost managed it. Almost. 

But then, your turned over, to Michael. You looked into his eyes- made almost black in the darkness, only the illumination of the window behind you on his face. He was still watching you. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but all that came out was a quiet sounding noise. That primordial, intrinsically human desire for comfort- for reassurance, and for safety. You extended a hand into the empty space, felt your bruised knuckles twist with uncertainty and fear, before the emotions crashed into you again and you slowly pressed your face into Michael’s chest. Breaking apart some invisible barrier or boundary. There was a moment of nothingness, as you shivered and closed your eyes, and then almost as hesitantly and uncertain, Michael rested his arms around you too. One hand on your back, the other resting in your hair, and you inhaled, desperately clinging to any string of distraction from the horror of reality that pressed on your mind. People had always said that Michael would smell like autumn, like pumpkins and apples- but he smelled like fall as it always was, like death and the promise of rebirth, like leaves on the ground and sweat and a hundred other things layering together. And in that moment, that smell was safety; his eyes, watching the door, promising to protect. So you pressed into his warmth, shuddering, calming breaths. With each moment, you felt your racing thoughts start to slip away from each other, unable to hold onto them for longer than a second before they disappeared. Your limbs, heavy with fatigue, and your body, enveloped in warmth and that smell. Before you realized it, you’d drifted off into sleep completely.

And for the first time in ages, Michael slept too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite chapter so far. A slice of self indulgent intimacy before I get to rip it all away
> 
> Also, contrary to popular belief, please don’t douse your wounds in an ocean of hydrogen peroxide. It can actually harm your healing process.


	8. Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The search continues. Police are requesting any leads to their whereabouts, as the family of the kidnapping victim begs for their safe return....”

When you were younger, you’d never gotten up before the sunrise, and privately, you’d suspected that it didn’t really existed. Time showed just how silly that idea was, but as you laid there, the sun flooding into the room, you wished it was true. The sunrise was red today, a great sea of it, and as you held out your hand to catch some of the color, you mumbled the old sailor melody, “Red skies in morning, sailor’s warning.” Without a cloud on the horizon, though, it was hard to imagine that was true. Instead, you rolled over, closing your eyes and groping in the space for a pillow or something. There was still some residual heat from where Michael had slept, and you exhaled in a sleepy murmur as you hugged the blankets. The sound of the shower running filled the small motel room, and as you reopened your eyes and squinted, you could see a few wisps of steam escaping from under the bathroom door. You shifted a little and felt every singe bruise and scrape greet you back, along with all the stains and the mud, and, maybe he’d had the right idea with the shower. 

You groaned as you kicked your legs out and stretched, muscles protesting, and then you finally managed to haul yourself up at least halfway. Every fiber of your body just wanted to go back to sleep. But you’d have to keep going, if you wanted to outrun Ghostface. So it looked like you’d have to wait to go back to sleep. So maybe you felt just a little bit grumpy at that, but that was normal. You’d never claimed to be a morning person- and hey, there was a reason you worked the night shift at work. 

“Remote, remote, where’s the remote,” you muttered, groping around the sheets and then the nightstand to find it- there. The plastic felt cold in your hands, and you ran your fingers along the bumps and edges, pressing the power button with a click, and the boxy television bloomed to life. Static for a few channels, until you landed on the news. You paused in your clicking, instead staring right at the screen with a surprised intensity. 

“That’s-” you stopped. It was you. And not just your baffled reflection, but a photograph of you. A relatively recent one, with you smiling at the camera- you could remember taking it, it was on a trip to Kenny Park with Jake and Quentin. The news reporter had a solemn look on their face.

“The search continues. Police are requesting any leads to their whereabouts, as the family of the kidnapping victim begs for their safe return. Jake Young and his partner, Quentin Young, have released stills from the security footage to the public,” and the screen changed to the security footage feed of Young’s Hardware. It showed you, with Michael looming over you. You looked terrified. The blood definitely didn’t help. As you watched, the realization that Jake was looking for you sunk in- that he was worried. Of course he would be worried, or even terrified, when your house was covered in blood and you had suddenly disappeared. He must’ve had some alarm happen at the store when the window was broken, and then… this. You chewed at your lip as the reporter continued.

“The footage shows both of the kidnapping suspects. Viewers are advised to be on the lookout for a tall man of medium build in a Michael Myers mask, along with a man of slim build in a Ghostface mask,” and it showed Ghostface, standing in the store, staring at something. The security still didn’t move, but it felt as though it was alive in some ways, motionless and waiting. You blinked, and then as if on cue, the footage suddenly moved, and Ghostface turned his head to look right at the camera. Right at you. Static began to flicker across the television set and you felt a sudden terror grip you, as you frantically shut it off.

Silence. The adrenaline in your system was ice cold and a little nauseating, and you exhaled, setting the remote down, unclenching your fists. You’d just started to stop shaking when there was a hand on your shoulder, and then you spun around, only to come face to face with Michael. His hair was still damp. 

“Sorry,” you tried to laugh, but it came out like a scratchy record, and then the smile dropped, “Guess I’m still jumpy.”

He removed his hand from your shoulder, but sat down on the bed beside you, as you uncrossed your legs and swung them over the side. Your feet brushed the old carpet, the cuts at the soles hissing in pain, but you only chewed the side of your mouth.

“I’m gonna get a shower, then we should go,” you stood up, ignoring all the pain flaring up, letting the idea of a nice shower push you. Michael made a sound like shifting to follow, and you stammered, “You don- you don’t have to follow me, it’s alright.”

He looked skeptical, which was a feat, considering he didn’t change his expression at all. Still, he didn’t move any more, and so you grabbed your pants from the floor and in you went. In the grand scheme of things, the shower was uneventful but refreshing, some hair dye still rinsing off, the exposed cuts burning a little. You made sure to wrap fresh gauze on the ones that needed it, fix your hair in the mirror, then you stepped out.

Michael wasn’t staring at you, which was a first. He was actually staring right out the window of the room, blinds held between his fingers as he watched… something. You tilted your head and padded across the ground, before sliding in beside him and peering out the same spot. At first, you saw nothing, but just as you were wondering what was happening, you noticed someone outside. Someone who was investigating your car. A motel worker was also present, talking on the phone, and you quickly put two and two together and jolted back.

“We need to go,” you stated, already throwing on your shoes, shoving whatever you’d brought into the plastic bag from the store and then taking a moment to dance on your feet anxiously. You could do this. Just had to run out. Of course the news would’ve mentioned your car, of course one of the workers must have noticed something. You felt Michael press against you in what you assumed was a reassuring fashion, and then you exhaled, opening the door. The cold morning air greeted you, and you flinched just a little, before grabbing Michael’s hand.

“Come on, come on,” you did a frantic sort of half walk. Didn’t want to run, in case that drew their attention, but maybe they had already noticed, your paranoia whispered. Michael’s hand was a steady comfort, though, as you hurried down the stairs and then found yourself standing in the parking lot. _That’s_ when the two people noticed. The worker stopped talking into the phone for a moment, and you held your breath, but then they continued without notice. The hair dye and cut must have worked enough. The other person looked at you and nodded, and Michael tensed with you.

“Hey” you called, walking towards them, “What’s up?” The taller of the pair, the one right beside your car, made a sort of wavy gesture with his hands. 

“Haven’t you seen the news? Some kid is missing from a town nearby. ‘S the same model car that the news said to look out for- big reward,” and he rapped his fingers on the hood, “One of the workers says they think they saw ‘em last night, so,” and he leaned back against the car, “now we’re waiting.”

You chewed at your lips, the flesh raw and unhappy. Okay, not good. You had to get them away from the car, or they’d notice you and you’d have changed your look for no reason. You had about half a plan, which was better than no plan- it could definitely maybe work, so you cleared your throat and began, feeling Michael radiate uncomfortable menace, “Oh I- definitely know who you’re talking about. About, this tall?” you exaggerated your height a little.

“Yeah! Yeah.”

“With…” you pointed at a seemingly random nearby object, “Hair like that color?”

“Yeah! Why- have you seen ‘em?”

You leaned in like a stage whisper, “I think I saw them going around back when I left my room just now. If you hurry, you can get them before the worker notices,” and even lower, “y’know, get the reward all for yourself.”

His eyes lit up. His smile was a little devious, as what you were saying finally clicked. The perfect plan, something no one could say no to. He stood back up and then began to speak in a loud, exaggerated fashion, “You said you saw them at the gas station?”

The motel worker stopped talking on the phone. The words processed. Then, they quietly turned around, and began to walk towards the gas station, phone still pressed to their ear. The man smirked at the success, and laughed a little, “Great work! They’re an asshole, I didn’t wanna have to share with them. Stick around, though- maybe I’ll split it with you,” and he winked, reaching out his hand to clap you on the shoulder, only to suddenly step back as if he’d been burned. His smile was much more nervous as he waved and then _quickly_ hurried away. You glanced up, your own eyes going a little wide as you noticed Michael’s intense expression, possessive at the edges and tinged with anger. There was a flicker of pleasant sweetness at first, but much like how antifreeze was sweet, in its deadly poison, and you found yourself staring at Myers with a furrowed brow. Unsure of what to do or say, you settled on shaking your hand free.

“Come on,” you jerked your head to the car, and then you were both seated inside, the keys in the ignition, the faint and lingering smell of old blood still in the seat fabric. With no one else around, you shifted into drive, and went. Off into the dull blue horizon, in chase of an idea.

And so you went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d probably call this chapter the last real kind of ‘relaxed’ one. The next chapters are a blast, lotta Ghostface for those that love him and might be rooting for him 
> 
> Maybe I’m rooting for him too. Maybe I’m not. His dialogue is really fun, though, so there’s that


	9. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tak tak_, the sound of the rain on metal. If you squinted, you wondered if that blue was Michael, or just your imagination. It seemed like the world just ended outside the car. Only you and the radio host left as the survivors.

A few hours into the drive, it started to rain. You’d picked the direction of west and just started driving that way, in some vague bid to end up on the entire other side of the country. And the storm clouds above were a murky sort of grey, all large and full of dangerous promise, the lightest of rain the only sign of what to come. Or what was happening. You gripped the wheel tighter and just kept driving.

Inevitably, the rain turned to storm. It was a slow thing, but maybe that made it all the more frightening, as drizzle turned into angry drops, sent flying from the force of the wind. The windshield wipers worked overdrive to try and keep up, but the visibly was nearly zero. Sheets of rain in every direction, so much that not even the headlights could go more than a few feet. On the winding roads, it made everything seem that much more treacherous. You always loved when it stormed- but being stuck in one like this, well, it made you reconsider your stance at least in the moment. Without thinking, you reached out and flicked the radio on, the weather station flaring to life. Most of it was warped and eaten by a tinny static, the rest of it muted by storm. 

“Dangers of flash flooding in Morrow County. Drivers on the _-czzzk-_ way and Ivy Crossing are _-czzzk-_ of the possibility of sudden, intense currents.”

Fantastic, a part of you snarked. An inhale, then exhale, and you just held the wheel all the harder, continuing to drive- leaving the radio on, too, just to give something in the background to take the edge off of your anxiety. The sound to fill the silence of the car. 

As always, Michael was simply watching you- with the mask on it seemed he fit right in with the shadows and mists. You wondered if he could drive, actually. Not right now, but maybe after this he could, just to give you a break. The radio mumbled things and phrases and your attention drifted, the feeling of the road beneath the car, the faint whistle of wind through the never quite sealed window. 

Not even ten minutes had passed before you blinked, then abruptly stopped the car. The curtain of rain had abated for a moment, just enough for you to catch a brief snatch of what looked like a flash flood ahead, blocking the road. Enough that you weren’t certain, but you weren’t about to just drive through as a way to check. You really didn’t want to have to turn the car around either, but… 

“Shit,” you _gently_ kicked the interior of the car, before shoving some of your hair out of the way of your eyes, turning to Michael, “One of us needs to go check if the road is blocked-”

And that was all you needed to say, apparently, because then he was getting out of the car. Right into the thunderstorm, like it didn’t even phase him. At five steps, the blue of his coveralls was getting hard to pick out from the rain, and at ten steps, he’d disappeared from view entirely. 

You suddenly felt strangely lonely. For a moment, you reached over to unbuckle yourself and get out, follow after him, but then you shook your head and leaned back into the seat. Your hand reached out and turned the radio up higher as a distraction, the crooning voice of some radio host filling the space. It was a nice sounding voice, actually, a bit smokey, and they laughed at some joke you didn’t catch, before continuing on with their lines.

“_You’re listening to 106.9, your only source of bastardly bayou information-_” you snorted, and he continued, “_You’ve already heard about the flash flood warning, though, probably talked your ear off enough. Let’s try something else for a change_.”

You leaned back in your seat, eyes drifting around the rain, listening to the oddly soothing sound of raindrops rattling off the metal roof. 

“_The Miners brought in another win for the season today against the Cuffs, making that the third win in the month. Of course, with Halloween right around the corner, I need to remind all my listeners to keep an eye out when walking alone at night. You never know if someone else might be out there, right?_”

_Tak tak_, the sound of the rain on metal. If you squinted, you wondered if that blue was Michael, or just your imagination. It seemed like the world just ended outside the car. Only you and the radio host left as the survivors.

“_But, speaking of everyone’s favorite spooky holiday-”_ and the voice seemed to shift, changing with a staticy sound, enough that you drifted your attention back to the radio itself, “_I think this is just the question to ask: what’s your favorite scary movie?_”

The half pleased smile on your face vanished. The desperate hope that it was just coincidence was gutted when the voice spoke again, all familiar and harsh, “_So. Did you miss me?_”

Your hand was frozen halfway to turning off the radio, and your mind was racing. Not just the phone- the radio, too. How had he found you? You’d run and run and done everything you could but, he was just laughing on the radio now. Your eyes strained desperately to pick out any shape of Michael in the distance, but there was nothing. Ghostface’s laughter on the radio, the sound bounced around, twisting and prodding. You hoped expression was frightening as opposed to frightened, and you forced your hand forward to the radio, the other going for your knife, the radio sounds crackling and whimpering with static.

“_Don’t-_”

The feeling of a smothering sort of presence filled the car. You balked and shoved your hand the rest of the way forward to the radio, hissing, “Go fuck yourself.” Smothering, suffocating, strangling. The button was pressed, and then- silence filled the space, your eyes wide. There was a vague sensation of acrid triumph that filled you, and it lasted for all of a moment. One single moment.

Hot breath on your neck. Ghostface’s voice, now whispered directly into your ear.

“You really should’ve listened.”

His arms surged forward from the backseat, wrapping around your neck. The knife in your hands dropped to the ground, and you managed a pathetic sounding gasp. After a terrifying moment, the pressure lessened just enough to let you inhale a rattling breath, but not enough to stave off the slowly encroaching feeling of darkness. 

“See? Isn’t this better?” he drawled, tapping his fingers a few times on the back of your neck where they gripped, “I think this is better.”

You croaked something that might have been a swear, or just air escaping your lungs. Ghostface squeezed just a little tighter. Air hunger was starting to trill through you, and you tried to inhale deep breaths, labored and rapid. Your hands were on his arms, trying to pull them away.

“What do you want?” you managed. 

“I want to pin you underneath me and make you scream,” and then he laughed, just a small sound, nearly lost among the rain and your dying gasps.

“Did you really think you could get away? I know everything about you,” he whispered. The pressure was gradually increasing now, your vision tunneling, your scrambles more frantic, more desperate. His voice was right at your ear, the feeling of his mask brushing against your hair, “What you wear, your favorite food, and even that your parents-” the pressure was crushing and suffocating and you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t _breathe_, and Ghostface laughed, “Sorry. Spoilers.” 

Darker. Darker. The rain smothered the sound of your struggles. Desperate. You suddenly let one arm go, your hand fumbling around to the stick shift of the car. In a single motion, you slammed the car into drive. There was a moment of confusion from Ghostface, the feeling of his arms tensing up and your vision fading entirely, before you rammed the gas and the car shot forward- the sound of tires screeching and something breaking. Arms released your neck. All at once, air flooded your lungs, just enough for your vision to return- just in time, to watch the car crash through the barrier along the road edge, and pitch down. 

Down. Falling. You brought your arms up to shield your face, being thrown back against the seat, the car tumbling, then violently sending you slamming into the window. The glass shattered, and the airbag shot open to catch you as you crashed into the wheel. The sound of metal crunching and groaning, the storm shrieking through the car, the glass shards flying and cutting gashes into you. All at once, the sounds crescendoed in a final noise: the sound of the car plunging into water. Then, silence. 

You opened your eyes to darkness. Or maybe not darkness, but a deep, deep green. One that stung and burned, even as you forced your eyes to remain open, to try and collect your bearings. And not just pain in your eyes, but your arms, your legs, your chest and your head. Everywhere. The world felt like it was throbbing and swimming at once, and you realized-

You were underwater. 

_Drowning_.

The surprise turned into fear, and you struggled to grasp the seatbelt buckle, managing to click it open and free yourself after a moment of terrified uncertainty. The door was caved in but the windshield was shattered, so you pushed yourself from the seat and through the glass remnants, your movements slow in the water. Kick, kick, swim, had to keep going, and you swam for what you assumed was the surface-

Only for something to grasp your leg. Then, your kicks became more frantic, and you thrashed your arms too, grabbing hold of some kind of log and yanking yourself to the surface with a panicked, shallow breath. You coughed and hacked and gasped, trying to orientate yourself, but everything was grey from the rain still pouring down, and it was green and strange and. A bog? A swamp? You clutched the log and felt that something against your leg again, and let out a little cry, pushing off the fallen tree and towards what you hoped was safety. You couldn’t see anything. The soupy mire was thick and vicious, and smelled of rot and sulfur and stagnant, something too rich and cloying. Your lungs convulsed from the water you’d accidentally swallowed, and each of your muscles keened desperately for relief- but, you had to keep going. Ghostface must have been right behind you, or maybe he was below you, and you realized you were making terrified, gasping cries with each motion. Forward. Forward. Had to keep going, couldn’t stop. 

There! Darker than the rest of the area, a hill. Land. Safety- had to be. You swam, harder than before, flailing in the almost darkness and kicking through ages of forest decomposition. Your vision was blurred with rain and mist, and yet, you felt solid ground underneath yourself suddenly, and realized you’d made it. The dirt, turned into slick mud, but you couldn’t have cared less as you hauled yourself up onto it, digging your hands into the soil and then pulling yourself up. The mud tumbled down around you as you frantically crawled the way to the top, slipping down and forcing yourself back up, trying to ignore the hammering of your heart or the idea that Ghostface could be right behind you. Slope turned to flat, and you dropped yourself to the ground, your chest heaving- the rain, washing away the mud, and leaving you soaked in a bone chilling manner. Cold shivers wracked you. But your eyes were held open, watching, searching, terror.

Footsteps squelching in the mud. You tensed and spun around as much as you could, fumbling for your knife and then holding it out like a threat.

“Get the fuck away!” you snarled. The person actually stopped.

“Easy. Slow down there- I’m just here to help,” called the person in reply. An unfamiliar voice. Not Myers, not Ghostface, someone new. You still kept the knife up, but only watched as they stepped forward. He looked old, but in the way that trees look old, and he was holding a lantern out like a radiant beacon, an ancient looking rifle in the other hand. 

“Jesus Mary and Joseph,” and then he was hurrying over, extending a hand, saying something that was lost to the wind but must have been a reassurance. Not that it mattered, because just as he did so, there was the sound of heavy footsteps, stomping up the hill, and then-

“Michael-” you croaked, stumbling and falling and landing with a grunt. From your spot in the mud, you watched as both the man and Myers stepped forward to help you, noticed the other, and then backed away like angry, circling dogs. You’d already started to try and pick yourself up when the man with the lantern stopped in his tracks, seemed to examine Michael and you, before looking off into the distance and staring at something you couldn’t see. Whatever it was, he looked back to your both with a different expression.

“Follow me!” he swung the lantern. Michael’s arms hauled you up, set you back on your feet, and for a moment you wondered if you’d follow after the man, but the moment didn’t last for long. Instead, you clasped Michael’s wrist, looked up to him, and together, you trudged through the rain after the old man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God it’s so fun to write Ghostface. Really, really not fun for the protagonist but I’m a cruel god I guess. 
> 
> Ghostface’s motivations are changing, it seems. Or maybe not. What an interesting idea.


	10. Offering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know,” he stated, and all at once you felt your blood run cold.

The old man’s house seemed almost out of place, in the creeping swamp, but in this moment it was safety from the storm, and that was all that mattered. The instant you stepped through the front door, the howling wind died down, the rain reduced to the small, muffled sounds against windows. The door closed as thunder snapped across the sky, making you jump in your skin and press against Michael. Were you trembling from the rain soaking you, or fear? Michael’s hand held your own tightly, having migrated from the wrist when the water threatened to wash you both away, and even in the relative safety of the house, he didn’t budge. Neither did you. The stranger stepped forward and muttered some things, flicking on a few lights and setting his rifle and lantern down. You stood up taller and turned your head to Michael.

“If he tries to kill us,” you whispered into his ear, “I’ll let you say ‘I told you so.”

It was hard to tell with the mask, but you wanted to imagine the tilt of his head said he was smiling. But then, the old man turned around, and you eyed him like you hadn’t just been plotting his probable demise. He cleared his throat.

“Manners- here, you both can sit down now, don’t mind getting the couch wet, ‘s gone through worse,” and he gestured forward. The paranoid part of your mind warned against relaxing in the presence of a stranger. The louder part of your mind simply felt tired relief. That’s what propelled you forward, Michael right beside you, the both of you sitting down a moment later. Water rolled down your face, mixing with the mud and blood and whatever other scrapes and bruises you’d gained when you’d crashed into the swamp. It could be worse, you decided, as you pressed against Michael’s side; you could be shivering too.

“So. Suppose you can call me Hillsan,” the- Hillsan stated in an amicable way, staring at the two of you in a mix of confusion and attempted friendliness, “Can I ask why you were out in the storm?”

Your eyes darted to and from the window, right as you lied, “We, got lost.” Hillsan, however, seemed to notice your frightened glance, though he said nothing.

“Lost? In a… Jason mask, is it?” he turned his attention to Michael.

“Halloween.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“It’s a Halloween mask. Not Jason,” you corrected with a mumble, “Jason wears the hockey mask.”

Hillsan smiled in a disarming way, cautious, “I guess you like scary movies, huh?”

You prided yourself that you didn’t flinch, but your expression went through fear then realization in the span of a single moment, and your reply was barked, “No!” Forceful. Your eyes widened in surprise, and you repeated, softer, “No, no.”

Too late. The damage was done. Now you were a twitchy mess again, and Michael was looming in the way that wasn’t dangerous so much as warning, and Hillsan was looking at you both with a critical gaze. Almost worried, underneath. You glanced outside again. Was that flash of white lightning, or something else? Thunder roiled over the hills. A few cuts near your eyes stung. You tried to inhale in a calming fashion, but there was still some water or moisture in your lungs or throat, and you just ended up coughing with a wet sound. 

“Let me get you both a change of clothes,” Hillsan stood up, shaking his head, “You’re gonna catch your death. Gimme a second,” then disappeared into a side room. You huddled in on yourself, and exhaled with a rattling noise, pressing your hands against your face. Three days ago, everything was simple and fine. Now, you were huddled in some stranger’s house in the bayou, bleeding, being hawked over by a slasher and hunted by another. You unfolded a little, but only barely, just enough to reach up to ghost against your neck at the phantom sensation of bruises and squeezing hands. Your voice drifted from your throat like paper drifting to the ground.

“He was in the car,” you whispered, not looking to Michael. No, your attention was somewhere else, in your memories replaying over and over, “He was in the car, and he said-” your entire face twisted, the words lodged in your throat. Saying it felt like weakness. You hated it- you hated feeling like this. But you forced them out, between another perl of thunder, “_I know everything about you,_” your voice took on a harsh quality, but dropped to a shaking mutter, “_I wanna pin you underneath me and make you scream._”

A hand on your own. Michael’s hand. There was blood on your fingers for some reason, and you blinked as he carefully pulled your hand away from your arm- where you’d been ripping up the scabs without noticing. You blinked a second time, slower. Sheets of rain washed over the windows. Blood dripped from your face.

“I’ve got the clothes,” Hillsan’s voice broke the almost silence, suddenly standing behind the both of you, and his eyes flickered to your arm before returning to your face, “You can change in the spare room, iffin that’s alright. I’ll give you a ride into town when you’re done. No phone here though, so you won’t be able to call for towing if you need it.”

He held the spare clothes out, and you grabbed them, as he apologized, “Sorry if they’re too big for either of you. Sarah’s been gone for, about five years now, and the grandkids never really visit.”

“No- that’s alright, thank you,” you fumbled, standing up abruptly, “Do you have any bandages?”

“Already got the first aid kit set out in the room too,” he nodded. You nodded back. Michael did not nod.

“Okay.”

And with the awkwardness solidified, you went to go to the spare room. Michael, of course, following you. You paused at the threshold of the door.

“You can stay out here, if you want,” you attempted. Michael seemed to tilt his head a little at that, or it might just have been you shifting. Like it was a strange question. Maybe it was a strange question. Hillsan was making a face, concerned almost, and you didn’t want to explain what was happening any further, so you just pushed opened the door and Michael followed, closing it behind himself with a click. You set the spare clothes down on the bed. Oh- there were some towels, too. You felt a little bad for intruding on this man’s hospitality, but spare clothes and first aid wasn’t something you were going to pass up. Your shirt was already halfway over your head when you realized that Michael was still staring at you.

Your back to him, you froze, realizing. Suddenly and abruptly uncertain. A moment, and then two, and you must’ve been standing frozen for too long, shirt halfway off your head, because Michael started to shift as if to walk closer and that jolted you into motion.

“No-” your voice was loud without meaning to, maybe the embarrassment, and you cleared your throat, a little crackling indignance, “It’s fine. I don’t need help.”

Just because you’d nearly gotten strangled in your own car didn’t mean you were a toddler. You could do this yourself; even if it hurt. You had to. You threw off the wet shirt with perhaps too much force, and then the rest of your clothes quickly followed, everything but the shirt replaced in a matter of moments. You felt jittery again. Suddenly, Michael was eyeing you with a little uncertainty himself. A sharp inhale, a lingering exhale, and then you sat down on the edge of the bed, the discarded, wet towels kicked to the side.

“I’m sorry,” you managed lamely, and didn’t even have an excuse to follow it up. Just Ghostface’s words, bouncing around your head, taunting about killing you or maybe something else, and was that what scared you most- that maybe you knew exactly what he really meant, and that a part of your mind found it thrilling, and it made you want to vomit, and scream, and-

And Michael’s hand on your face. You flinched without meaning too, eyes going wide, freezing. And then, just as shamefully, you leaned into the touch and squeezed your eyes shut. You wanted to say, I’m scared. But what would that do? You were scared, and maybe Michael was too, and Ghostface was hunting you down like animals to the slaughter. I’m scared, you wanted to say, as if that would change anything at all. Instead, you quietly let Michael tend to rewrapping your wounds, old and new. Just a moment of weakness. And when the last of the gauze was settled, and Michael’s hand was resting on your shoulder, you managed a frail smile. 

“You smell like a swamp,” you rolled your shoulder, “Are you sure you don’t want to change too?”

No, of course. Still, you handed him a few of the towels to dry off, and shrugged on a jacket that was nearly your size but not quite, toed on dry socks and old boots. You set your wet clothes in a ball on the floor, some small feeling in the back of your mind saying that you would never see them again. Paranoia and paranoia again. You glanced over to Michael, then grabbed the first aid kit, standing up. At the same time, he decided that he was done drying off, and as you left the room, he followed. Hillsan, who was still in the living room, looked over to you both.

“Ah, right, you can set that thing down,” he waved a hand, “anywhere.”

So anywhere it went. Hillsan, however, held eye contact with you, and the lines of stress on his face spoke of awkwardness and uncertainty. Like words he wouldn’t say. Some kind of judgement, but not directed at you, and a strange sort of acrid pity. He cleared his throat, “Actually, if you don’t mind- could I talk with you for a moment?”

You were already making to walk to him, but he slowly struggled and stood up, nodding to the kitchen, “Alone. If that’s alright.”

“Oh. Right, sure.”

Michael had a different opinion on the matter. You gave him another half smile, dog tired, “Hey, I’ll be right here, don’t worry,” and you gave your knife pocket a firm, reminding pat as well. Whether he understood or not, Michael reluctantly stepped back, taking a standing position by the sofa and watching you go. In the distance, thunder murmured. Hillsan pointedly didn’t close the door to the kitchen, but did angle it shut slightly.

Silence dominated the room. If it wasn’t for the dishwasher quietly rumbling, the rain pattering, and the almost unnoticeable ringing in your ears, you would’ve said it was as silent as a grave. Hillsan was just staring at you. You shifted.

“I’m sorry-” you began. But he just stopped you. And his voice was uncharacteristically solemn for what you’d known of him, no levity, warmth in places of sorrow.

“It’s alright,” and then he was sitting down at the table. You took a seat opposite him, and he continued, “I know.”

“Yo- you know?” your smile was fake, “Know what? There’s nothing to know.”

“I know that you gone and got yourself into a heap of trouble, is what I know,” Hillsan snorted. The false smile slipped from your face. He rose an eyebrow, “And I know who that is.”

Almost defiantly, you rose an eyebrow back, “Oh?”

But this wasn’t some contest to him. He simply shook his head, arms crossed on the old oak table, “Maybe not who, but _what_. Creature that feeds on loneliness. Oh, he’ll eat you up inside.”

You made to raise your voice, but the movement constricted your throat, made the bruises flare and you stopped yourself halfway, your voice louder but not quite, “Listen-” you began, defensive, “It’s not, it’s not what you think,” but the steam left your voice when you realized how pathetic that sounded, when you realized that explaining it wouldn’t do anything and all you could do was repeat, “He’s not… he won’t.”

“He’s going to hurt you.”

“_He won’t._” 

Hillsan gave a coarse laugh, “Oh, he might not mean to, but it’s just in his nature.”

Just in his nature. Those were familiar words, and they brought with them a familiar burn, and it didn’t matter his intention or tone because you were pressing in and snarling, ages of grief and repressed anger, “Shut. Up.”

But Hillsan just stared. Not even judging, but sad, pitying, understanding in all the wrong ways, ways that made you uncomfortable and hesitant. Your snarl dropped slightly, held in a grimace, and Hillsan just stared. 

“I know,” he repeated, “I know.”

Silence again. Hillsan seemed to be lost in some kind of recollection, or maybe he was staring off into the stormy horizon, leaving your face to return to neutral, your mind to fill in the blanks. The room smelled faintly of maple in a way that made you horribly homesick, and the sharp crack of lightning made you shudder.

“They get stronger as time goes on,” Hillsan began again, something changed in his voice, something that made you listen, “You won’t even notice. You won’t want anyone else. Tear out your own heart. They’ll promise. But they mean it literally. They need it to survive.”

He’d started to lean in closer and closer with the sentences, as you leaned back. The room suddenly felt too small. Claustrophobic. The change in demeanor, the ancient tone, and his gaze snapping up to you, brown eyes shining in the darkness. Frantically, he yanked something from his coat pocket, grabbing your hand and pulling it forward as he shoved something into your palm. You made to recoil, but he held it there, and you realized, it was a lighter. Metal case cold in your grip, as his old, shaking hands closed your fingers around it, squeezed your hold once. 

“Fire is the only way,” he said softly, “Fire. Burn them- it’s, it’s the only way,” and his inhale was almost shuddering, like he was chilled to the bone and never warm again, “He’ll be the death of you. You’ll be the death of him.”

The moment felt weighted. It felt like it was weighed down by decades, like eras were pressing in on that small, ramshackle kitchen, with the dusty pots and the bottles of spices. You didn’t know what to say. 

It was only fitting that the moment was shattered like glass. Shattered, by one specific sound: a click. A camera click, your mind supplied. Your face tensed and you felt your hearing seem to sharpen, and you swiveled, looking around, out the windows, anywhere.

“What was that?” you demanded.

“I-” and he looked befuddled, “I don’t know.”

Bad answer. You shoved away from the table, making to stand up, and-

All at once, the lights went out. 

“Fuck!” you shouted, hurriedly flicking the lighter open and holding it out. Your breathing was coming in rapid, terrified bursts. Hillsan didn’t seem to understand what was going on. But you knew. You knew. You stood up, slamming the kitchen door open and spotting Michael. The orange glow of the lighter flame made him look terrifying for an instant, sliced shadows and dark emptiness. But his eyes were still the same, still warm, and you nearly ran into him, mouth running a mile a minute.

“It’s him- it’s him, we have to go, he’s here,” you sounded like you were going to sob, but there were no tears, just a stark terror. Hillsan, despite not knowing what was going on, looked increasingly worried himself.

“Slow down-”

“No, no!-” you retorted, “We need to go! He’s here!”

Michael’s hand was at your back. The thunder crashed in the distance. It wouldn’t be enough. Oh god, not again, no.

“It’s just a power surge, happens all the time,” Hillsan soothed, “I’ll just go outside and restart the ol’ generator-” but then he trailed off when he caught sight of your face. 

Silence in the room. The wind, whistling through the cracks in the wood, making the house groan, the rain harsh, the thunder raking and curdling. You were waiting, you realized. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A moment later, it finally did.

_Riiiiing_.

Both you and Michael tensed. You, abruptly snapping the lighter closed, bathing the room in complete darkness in some desperate attempt at hiding. The other hand went for the knife. Hillsan, though, you barely caught sight of his confused face.

“I thought you didn’t have a phone,” you rasped so quietly.

“It- it wasn’t plugged in.”

The phone continued to ring. And ring. The sound clawed its way into your chest, burrowing. It dug into the cracks in the walls with the wind and it just kept ringing and ringing. On and on. 

Then with a tired sounding click, the phone answered itself.

“_Hello_,” Ghostface sounded almost playful, “_Sorry it took me so long. You were hard to find. It’s almost like you were hiding from me._”

You mouthed the words ‘no’, and felt Michael pull out his knife, and saw the confusion in Hillsan’s eyes. Ghostface sighed.

“_Don’t look so scared. Come on, smile, why don’t you?_” then his voice grew huskier, “_You looked so nice in the kitchen earlier, you know- that’s one of my favorite photos I have of you so far._”

Michael seemed like he was three seconds away from tearing over to the room and smashing the phone into pieces, and out of the corner of your eye, you noticed that Hillsan was inching towards the car keys, left on a nearby endtable. Ghostface noticed too.

“_ Oh, You look like you could use some help, Hillsan,_” Ghostface laughed, “_Here- let me._

“No!” you finally shouted. But it was no use. Wouldn’t have stopped anything before, didn’t do anything now. You made to try and push away from Myers, but he had a grip on your arm, stopping you from trying to go to Hillsan, “No! Get away- you need to run, you-”

In a flash, the lights turned back on. Everything illuminated at once: Hillsan’s horrified expression, Ghostface staring at you through the window. Lights off. Lights on, Ghostface climbing through the window. Lights off. At an almost strobe light pace, the lights flickered on and off, a second of darkness and a second of light. It made everything seem fake. Unreal. Like some kind of bad movie. Ghostface, breaking in, and Hillsan backing up and the storm raging and Michael tensing and everything, everything. Laughter. Ghostface was laughing. He stared right at you, and then lunged at Hillsan, lightning flashing and illuminating the scene of his knife flying downwards. The sound of a scream. Lights on, blood flying, horror, red. Lights off, your own screaming, the horrible sound of a knife slicing through flesh. Laughter. 

Abruptly, you felt both of Michael’s arms grab you. Your feet were still planted firmly on the ground, you wanted to rush forward, you wanted to stop this, you felt tears in your eyes but anger in your face and you were still yelling. Ghostface was still laughing. Hillsan had stopped screaming, just gurgles now, just wet sounding gasps of someone dying right in front of your eyes. Michael lifted you up before you could protest. Carrying you. You could still see over his shoulder, and you were shouting, begging, cursing and everything at once. Thrashing, trying to get away. 

“Stop!” you yelled, “No!” Lights on, Hillsan’s dying face staring at you, the last thing he’d ever see, the life draining from his eyes because he’d been stupid enough to help two strangers. 

Lights off. Michael sprinted out the door. Lights on, and you watched Ghostface jam his knife into Hillsan’s throat, grind it in left and right, and stare right at you with a gentle tilt of the head.

Lights off.

Into the truck. Michael was in the driver's seat. Doors locked, keys in the ignition, and then he was gunning it, ramming reverse, peeling out of the driveway with the rain splattering around and the sound of your voice that choked off like it didn’t even know what to do.

Lights on. One final time. Ghostface made the ‘call me’ motion with his hands. Ripped Hillsan’s throat open.

And that was the last thing you saw, before you both drove off into the storm. In your pocket, Hillsan’s lighter, a last gift. It felt like lead on your heart. You stared off into the grey sheets of rain, and Michael drove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, a scorpion sat at the bank of a river. He wanted to cross, but he could not swim. 
> 
> “Frog,” he called, “Please, give me a ride across on your back.”
> 
> “No,” sniffed the frog, “If I do that, you’ll kill me.”
> 
> “If I stung you, we’d both die,” the scorpion pointed out. The frog considered this. 
> 
> “Well... alright. Hop on.”
> 
> The frog swam across the water, with the scorpion on his back. But only halfway through, the scorpion abruptly stung the frog, and, slowly, the frog began to sink.
> 
> “Why?” cried the frog, “Now we’ll both die!”
> 
> “I cannot help it,” mournfully replied the scorpion, “It’s in my nature.”
> 
> And so they both died.


	11. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You picked up a pebble in your hands. Rubbed your fingers over it, then threw it into the fire, letting the embers scatter a little, watched them die. In the flash of red, you imagined it was blood, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

Michael was driving. 

The road ahead seemed like it was… endless. Dark, no lights, no moon above and no stars through the clouds. No rain, either, just. Just nothingness.

But Michael drove on.

You hunched in on yourself more, but it was hardly any movement, with your eyes glued to the outside and your eyes half open. You felt exhausted. Bone tired, like you’d never feel right again, like this was how it would be for the rest of forever. Exhausting. And cold. Cold, the metal of that lighter in your hands, your still shaking fingers rubbing the faded engraving on the side. Maybe it was a name once, or, whatever it was people put on lighters important to them. You’d never know, though. Because he was dead.

Dead.

Trees slid past your view, but your eyes didn’t focus on them. No, just that one word, bouncing around your head. You couldn’t close your eyes, because then, you’d see him. You’d see that last terrified expression and you’d blink and then it would be you there, on the floor, the one getting their throat ripped open and having the last moment of their life be pure, unadulterated terror, and incomprehensible pain-

You forced your eyes back open, shuddering. So tired. But you couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep. You’d just watched someone die right in front of your eyes, and it was your fault. It wasn’t like the funeral you’d attended as a teenager, where they both looked like they could’ve been sleeping, even though half of her casket was closed and his neck was suspiciously covered. 

Nothing like that. Somehow so much worse. And you felt so, so tired. It had been hours already. It could be hours more. It could’ve been, but you exhaled in a fragile way, and looked over to Michael.

“Michael,” you started, and then paused, your voice like dust, “I’m tired.”

Three words. The most you’d spoken since you’d gotten into the car. So barely there that he could’ve ignored them all together. But, he didn’t. Michael’s eyes snapped to you, nearly unnoticeable in the darkness, and then he seemed to nod. A slight incline of his head. There and gone, and your exhausted mind struggled to even form a coherent thought when suddenly he was slowly pulling off the road, following signs on the side with a familiar tent symbol. 

“Campgrounds,” you whispered, voice barely even audible. Your smile was just as small, and tinged at the edges with a kind of bitterness. The memory was like cardboard and lemonade and, papercuts. There wasn’t a word for it, so you didn’t say anything at all, and let Michael quietly park the car and turn it off entirely. 

A campsite. There was scattered ash in the fire pit, and soot marking some of the trees, names carved into the bark, dead patches of grass mixed in with gravel and packed dirt. Achingly familiar, emphasis on the ache, and you looked over to Michael once more. He was watching you, intently. Carefully, if you’d have called it that, like he was cataloguing every expression on your face and waiting. Waiting for that smile. It took you a moment, but you found it again. Something in his eyes softened. 

“I think the last campers left some wood nearby for a fire,” you tilted your head back a little, “If you want.”

You didn’t have to ask, but you did. And he didn’t have to nod, but he did. And he certainly didn’t have to take his mask off before leaving the car, but he did.

Your shoulders felt a little less heavy as you stepped out. Night had fallen ages ago, leaving the two of you in a little sphere of the world, the headlights of the car illuminating half a campground. It only took you a moment to nose out the firewood, and you grabbed it by the armfull, while Michael grabbed even more, and you managed a little snort at the sight of him determinedly hauling six logs against your three. It was a lot of firewood. You doubted you’d even get through two. But, still, you both set the logs a fair distance from the fire pit, and then you descended on the fire pit, kindling and tinder and a smile. A distant smile. 

“I love camping,” you mentioned as you spread the tinder out just right, arranged the kindling and the logs like you remembered. Your voice took on a slightly rambly quality as you continued, but Michael didn’t seem to mind, “This isn’t really camping, since we have the truck. Well, I think it counts actually. Car camping, or, something, y’know,” you pushed off the ground to a leaning position, the lighter in your hands, “I don’t remember. It doesn’t really matter, does it?” 

Flick. The flame, dancing in the air for a moment, then the faintest sparks of ignition from the tinder, and then- 

Fire.

A slow fire. That’s how all fires started out: small, but it would roar to life soon enough. And it would burn bright and loud and then, choke off and die. Your smile slipped a little as you sat down beside Michael, watching the flames. Even with the fire, though, it was autumn and there was just enough of a chill on the night breeze to make you cold. You pressed closer to Michael, glanced over to him to make sure it was alright, and then completed the distance, side by side now. The lights from the car turned off. 

You watched the fire. The thoughts were pressing in around you, the fear, the blame, the terror that still gripped you even now as you sat close to the only person that <del>might</del> would protect you. You inhaled once, almost shuddering, the metal of the lighter clammy and your mouth dry and-

“We used to camp,” you stated, abruptly. Anything, anything to stop thinking about It. Michael was staring at you, his mouth pressed ever so slightly thin in a question, and even if you hadn’t wanted to, you continued, the words tangled around like twine, “My parents. My original parents, I mean.”

You tilted your head back. The clouds had broken slightly, revealing the sky, the hundred thousand stars that gleamed in the darkness and beckoned and judged. A hundred thousand eyes, all watching you, under an endless sky. 

“I think it was the only times they were ever happy,” and, your bitter smile was gone, everything was harsher now, “Y’know, it just- makes it harder to hate them. I know I should, and I _do_, but then I remember that, and I think it could’ve- maybe, if I had just done something better…”

You picked up a pebble in your hands. Rubbed your fingers over it, then threw it into the fire, letting the embers scatter a little, watched them die. In the flash of red, you imagined it was blood, and you squeezed your eyes shut. You couldn’t have stopped talking if you wanted to now, everything tumbling out.

“It never worked,” the voice of someone who had gone over this many times before and repeated it to themselves even more, “It only lasted for as long as we were in the woods, and then we’d drive back home and everything would go back to how it always was.”

Bitter, bitter, bitter. 

You felt so tired. 

Beside you, Michael shifted, and you opened your eyes to look over to him. Something about his expression… his lips were parted slightly, his eyes crinkled barely at the edges, brows upturned by hints. He wanted to say something. But no words came out, and no sounds came forth, and that was unfair, because you could see in his eyes what he wanted to say, could see it like a mirror plain as ever. It was like in the car, like in the motel, and so-

So you opened your mouth instead, and spoke.

“You don’t- you don’t understand why they hate you,” your voice wasn’t a whisper, but it sounded reverent, sounded like captured whispers between trees and old bones coming up for air, “You’re a child. You try to think about what you did wrong. And you’re a child, so you decide, it must be you. You must be the problem.”

Michael was holding your hand. You almost didn’t notice, but you always would, and your voice was creaking floorboards and candles burning to their base, and by the fire your eyes were reflected orange and red, autumn, “You know you should love them, but they never love you back, so it must be you. It’s always you.”

Campfire smoke smelled like cigarette smoke, smelled like memories drenched with wine, and it filled your lungs and spilled from your eyes, and your voice sounded like a promise or a curse or a prophecy, “You learn hatred. That’s all that’s left. And then it’s just _in your nature_. It’s your fault, they say, and that makes everything they do to you okay. It’s okay, because you’re evil, you deserve this. And you _believe it._” 

It was so _convenient._

Bitterness, everything was so bitter, unfair. Even years later, you wanted to scream, and even worse was that you still believed it. Were you still speaking for Michael, or was this all you? You couldn’t tell. The world seemed both too much and too little. 

But Michael was still holding your hand. That was centering, stabilizing, grounding. You took in deep breaths, and deeper exhales, and minutes passed, and you turned to him with a thankful, lopsided smile. A smile that lingered as you stared at him. Into his eyes, the way they caught the dying embers of the fire, the slight scrunch of his nose, the set of his lips. The world suddenly seemed so much smaller and less consequential. His expression said many things. It said, “it’s not fair.” It wasn’t. It said, “I am bitterness and rage, and that’s all I ever will be.” 

You’d drifted closer without realizing it, when you’d been searching his face, and now you could feel his breath and hear the hitch in your own breathing. Staring now. If you pressed forward just a few inches, your lips would meet. If you pretended that this could be it. Wouldn’t that be enough? 

You wanted to. But for all that you wanted to, you couldn’t forget just what made the two of you so different. And in remembering, you couldn’t forget Hillsan’s face, burned into your memory, and everything that came with it; realizations, fears, pain. That tiny little voice in your mind, ever paranoid, ever simperingly sweet, _It’s only a matter of time._

The fire collapsed. The light went out. And in the darkness, you pulled away.

“We should get some sleep,” you whispered. Tired. So tired. A lighter like lead in your pocket, memories of the dead pressing against your mind. Your eyes adjusted enough to see Michael nod, but not enough to catch the fleeting disappointment. Still, though, you both stood up, and you grabbed his wrist so you wouldn’t fall as you both made your way back to the car, sand thrown over the fire. In the bed of the truck, a blanket was found, unrolled, and laid out, and the two of you laid down side by side together. Both of you, staring up at the ocean of stars.

“Night,” you mumbled, exhaustion claiming you in mere instants. Yet, you held your eyes open for just long enough to see something flash in the darkness. To your sleepy gaze, it seemed like a shooting star. And shooting stars reminded you of a song Quentin sang to you when you were sick, and so your wish was half coherent, and uttered like a prayer, _I miss my dad_. But then it was gone, and you slipped fully into sleep, Michael watching the darkness until he too drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I’m a funky little monkey I’m giving you a preview of the next chapter
> 
> The scorpion and the frog becomes relevant


	12. Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How could you hurt me?” asked the frog, disbelief and pain and a mouth full of riverwater, “I trusted you.”
> 
> “I cannot help it,” mournfully replied the silent scorpion, “it’s in my nature.”

It was a warm morning. The worn wheel of the car was slightly clammy beneath your grip, but it was a reassuring feeling, grounding. You blinked in an almost sluggish way, crumbs of sleep still clinging to the corners of your eyes, and yet you still drove on. Out of necessity more than desire- more distance between you and your stalking killer, always more distance, always just a few more hours of driving. But the arrow of the fuel level was listing now, and so you kept your eyes peeled for a gas station. Any would do. If you were lucky, maybe they’d have some coffee or energy drinks inside. There was money in the glove compartment and it curdled your stomach like acid to spend it, but- but maybe you could fool yourself and say that this is what he would have wanted. It worked, mostly. As long as you didn’t think about it for too long, or at all. 

Exhale. You relaxed your grip on the wheel, where you knuckles had gone white and started to ache, and instead, turned your attention somewhere else. Anywhere else, and the closest thing just happened to be Michael. You glanced over. He might have glanced back; it was hard to tell with the mask, but you were getting better. Your smile was almost tentatively happy, and you returned your gaze to the road, letting the smile linger. Cautious happiness. The faint memory of warmth still lingered, from where you’d both slept close together, and you could remember your conversation from last night like it was only a few seconds ago.

Things were getting better. Things seemed like, they would finally work out. Maybe Michael cared about you, you could think. Things felt different than they had when you’d first met. It felt more real. Something warm inside your heart, like flyers fresh from a printer, soup on a cold day. Warm. Too warm. Suddenly, too much, and you felt your hands clench because the heat was like blood on your chest and a ringing in your ears too much like rain rattling off a car hood, the sound of insects a creeping laugh.

Breathe. Breathe, you reminded yourself. Things seemed like they were getting better, and you just had to keep going, and then they _would_ be fine. It was less bad, it was okay a little, right? It would be fine. 

You almost didn’t notice the gas station. Almost. You suddenly jerked your foot on the brake, eased up too late, then stopped again too sharply. Michael was staring at you like he was concerned, and you didn’t want to have to say what was wrong. You’d gotten over it last night, so it had to be done, and you would ignore it until it was. You gave him a smile, and he almost believed it.

Slowly, the car pulled up to a gas pump, and a quick check assured it was on the right side. You yawned then, that feeling of tiredness returning in full force, just for a moment, as you leaned back in the seat and fiddled with a handful of bills. 

“I need to go in to pay,” you mumbled, counting out what should have been enough money. Maybe three states back, actually, but not here, and you shook your head to grab more, ignoring the look Michael was giving you. You nudged him. It was a nice nudge. 

“Be right back,” you half sang, half drawled, stepping out of the truck and closing the door behind yourself with a slam. There was only one other car at the gas station, parked in a spot up front, faded and rusted. No one wanted to be out this early. Hopefully, that meant you could be quick too. You checked around yourself before you entered, as if some flash of black and white would appear when you weren’t looking, and in any other time, you would have laughed at your paranoia. Maybe. Or maybe you’d always been like this. It didn’t matter now, did it?

The smell of filtered air hit you like a wave the moment you stepped into the gas station store, the doors closing behind you with a light jingle. You crinkled your nose a little; some cloying scent of cigarette smoke, cleaning supplies sharp, and an old air conditioner. The lights above buzzed, a few flickered. You lifted up your foot, just slightly, the feeling of something sticky at the bottom of it. It was a little nostalgic- kind of. That moment in between trips when your parents would send you into the store, and you’d stare at the bags of chips and cookies and spin the display with the hundred of glittering keys. 

But this was here, and you were now, and you had at least twenty dollars in ones and fives and you had a job to do. The cashier was ringing up another customer, so you shifted from foot to foot, before shaking your head and skulking into a nearby aisle. Rows of prepackaged pastries stood at attention, poptarts, those little chocolate donuts that tasted so bad but like childhood. You studied a cold cheese danish for a minute too long, your mind drifting, attention going with it. The voices of the cashier and the other customer, filtering towards you through the sounds of tinny music and struggling air conditioner.

“Bad storm last night.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

Beep, an item rung up, your gaze shifting to the chocolate donuts.

“You heard the news report?”

“Which one? There was an, uh, amber alert? Is that the word?”

“No. That’s the ones for kids. ‘S Code Silver.”

Peck, peck, rattle. The familiar sound of the cash register opening. 

“Ohh, that’s why you have that poster?”

“Yuh-huh. Just printed it out.”

Swish, paper bag, filled and handed off. You looked up from the bear claw in your hands, to the counter, where the customer was done being rung up, leaning against the side and chatting idly with the cashier now. Time enough for you to go up and then be done. So you grabbed some random pastry from the shelf to share with Michael and walked forward, more of a huddle, increasingly aware of the bruises that littered your neck and face, the crusty and dried blood on your jacket. By the time you’d reached the counter and set your pastry down, you felt smaller than you were comfortable with. But it was fine. You set down all of your bills, cleared your throat.

“I need to buy-” you blinked at the pastry, then grunted, “that. And put the rest of the money on pump three.”

The cashier stared at you for a moment, ringing the pastry up with some kind of expression you couldn’t really place. 

“We only have paper bags.”

“That’s okay.”

He leaned under the counter. And that’s when you looked behind him, and saw the poster on the wall on full display. 

It was you.

You, with different hair and a smile on your face and every single physical description Jake and Quentin could fit on the paper. Maybe it was the air conditioner blowing on you, but you felt ice flood your veins and settle like a rock in your stomach, just like your throat constricting and limbs all tensing at once. Tensing, so much that you felt yourself _trembling_. 

The cashier stood back up, and now, he was staring right at you. Your eyes were glued to the counter top, trying desperately not to look at him, so that he hopefully didn’t realize just how pants shittingly terrified you were. You wanted to just bolt out of the store, but if you did, they’d _know_. So you stood there, while he stared at you, and the other customer was staring at you too- even if you couldn’t see his face. 

“Wait,” the customer began, his voice rough and a little confused, gradually gaining heat and traction as he spoke, “Wait just a goddamn second. I think I recognize you.”

“No you don’t,” you whispered. Hunching in on yourself. Begging the cashier to ring you up faster.

“No, I do,” his voice had gained confidence, accusatory too, “That poster- Jeff, move, lemme see it again,” and the cashier, Jeff, obliged. Still slowly, slowly putting the cash in the register, your every muscle demanding you just give it up and run out, find some other gas station, just get out.

There was silence for a moment. Just long enough for you to hope that maybe he was wrong and that the cash register would close with completion. Just long enough, and then, not enough. Close. But not enough.

“It’s you!” the man shouted, loud and booming and almost disbelieving, “Th- the poster kid! The silver alert!”

You tensed to run, and made the mistake of turning to your left to face him. And just like that, you froze. 

_Brown hair that’s going grey but not quite, half a beard and wrinkles, wrinkled forehead and wrinkled coat and something like sour milk, cigarette smoke and its companion is in white wine and red-_

Last night you had wished to see your dad again and this was not what you meant.

The man- the man, who was not your father, but so similar and that was frightening- the man. He stared at you. He was saying something, and you realized that the window to run was gone. The cashier was saying something too.

“Don’t crowd them, Bruce-”

_Bruce_. You were stepping back, one foot behind the other, eyes still blown wide and staring daggers or terror at Bruce. You kept staring at his throat like you expected it to burst open at any moment, like spiders would flood out or candle wax. Anger and resentment and fear, stewing together, a hundred childhoods all coming back. Your face was definitely a snarl. You barred your teeth.

“Stay the fuck away!” you threatened. Roared, but your voice wasn’t nearly loud enough for that, almost cracking between your gnashing teeth that did nothing to hide the tremble in your frame. 

“Bruce!” the cashier warned. But Bruce held his hands up and was slowly walking towards you. One step at a time. Face impassive, tinged with what might have been empathy if you didn’t read it as a trap. 

“Careful. It’s alright,” he attempted. A few more inches forward, face careful.

“Stay ba- stay back!” you barked. There wasn’t much more space left behind yourself. The wall was only a few steps away now.

“Easy there. Easy,” he lied, “I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

The back of your shoe hit the wall. Your eyes narrowed like a bear trap finally snapping shut.

“I said,” and then you yanked the knife from your pocket, sprung it out and held it forward with darting eyes, “_Stay the fuck back!”_

He stopped. Both of them stopped, actually. Jeff who had been gradually inching as well, was now stock still. Feet behind Bruce. Bruce, who was far away but too close, too close, it had been years since you’d last seen that face and you blinked like you were staring at a bright light, anything to shift away the memories and remind yourself that you were here and now, not then, not nine years prior hiding in a corner with police sirens in the distance. 

“Okay. Okay, we won’t go any closer,” Jeff stuttered, and for good measure, he stuck his hands in his pockets. You looked over to him, but back to Bruce just as quick. Daring him to try and move.

“Good,” you spat. Shivered a little. Slowly, painstakingly, shifting half step by half step to the door so that you could run. It didn’t help that they were shifting with you, and you jutted the knife out more, intensifying your face for a moment in a wordless threat.

“Please-” Jeff’s voice caught your attention again. It sounded different now, softer, “Your. Your parents are worried about you. We only want to help you…”

You turned to him fully. Anything to get Bruce out of your vision as you thought of _parents_. Thought of Jake and Quentin, and of lullabies at night and- and a funeral with two caskets, one half closed, of a policeman picking you up from a corner and the smell of white wine and cigarette smoke and blood. Your mouth was dry. 

“I know,” you croaked. Real parents. Jake’s packed lunches and Quentin’s supportive smiles. Parents who were hundreds of miles away and worried sick and if you went back now, Ghostface would kill them with a laugh. Your eyes closed as you shuddered and tried to ignore Hillsan’s face again, fresh in your mind. And that was all it took. A moment of distraction, just enough for Bruce to lunge. 

There was screaming. It was mostly your screaming. You stabbed on instinct and hit something, once, twice, and the first slash was yourself and the second one was certainly not, because then Bruce was gripping your arm and ripping the knife from your hand with a curse. You were thrashing, maybe you were yelling- the voice sounded like yours, but distorted with fear. You were yanking your arm like you might dislodge it from the socket, and it was definitely your voice now, and Bruce’s voice and Jeff’s and the tinny sound of the radio station aching a little tune about love. 

“Calm down- fucking shit, calm down!” Bruce shouted, both hands on your shoulders, the knife in his pocket and his face mixed with confused anger. The blood from your arm hit your hand, a sudden splash of warmth, and just like that, you stopped. Froze. The store smelled like cigarette smoke and wine and blood. You froze like you were twelve all over again.

“There you go- see? It’s alright now,” he tried to soothe. But you kept staring at his throat. They’d tried so hard to cover it up, but you could see the line under the paint, see the stitches that held it together. Or- no, you couldn’t. There wasn’t one. Or there wasn’t one yet. 

“I’m on the phone with the police now!” Jeff shouted, behind the counter, and that made you jolt. Your eyes were terrified. You were terrified. Not the terror of a child, but worse. In your mind, you could already hear the California laugh, and could already imagine breath on your neck.

“He’s-” you croaked, then louder, “He’s coming. He’s gonna hurt you, let me _go_-“

“Who’s he?” <del>your father</del> Bruce asked. His hand was going for his gun. You looked, to the phone, to the store windows.

That’s when Michael entered. 

Time seemed to stop. It certainly felt like it had. For a moment, you just stared. Your mind tried to process what was happening. Michael wasn’t real- he was a single VHS, rolling on repeat at two am when your parents would be sleeping, and you could pretend he was your only friend. But he wasn’t real. Except- 

Except you were here, and this was now, and then everything snapped back into focus and the tendrils of the memory unraveled. You wrenched the memories from you mind like ripping splinters from an arm. 

Michael was standing in the doorway, and staring right at you- specifically, to Bruce. To the gun that was slowly being drawn. To the blood on your chest. The terror in your eyes, the hands on your arms, and something else. Something in Michael’s eyes too, as he took in the scene. Took in the man with hair that looked white in the light and tan coat and a gun. 

Instinct.

Instinct, what had made you slip back into old memories before. Instinct, what drove Michael now. His mask was nearly luminously white in the glow of fading fluorescents, and his knife caught the red of the emergency exit sign as he rushed forward. You realized what was happening before you even understood, before Bruce could get his gun fully drawn, Michael’s lunge completing itself with a whiz of displaced air and the sound of a scream. You weren’t sure who had screamed- it didn’t seem to matter, when you were paying attention to the wet noise of _impact_ now. The physical sensation, and you felt yourself jolt a little with it. You looked over. Bruce’s eyes were unblinking and almost shaking, his mouth still open but only little flecks of voice escaping. You looked down. The knife was stuck directly into his stomach. Blood was already blossoming out, and some of it had sprayed onto you. 

Your mother had died this same way, was your first thought.

Bruce turned fully to you. His grip was still on your arm- a death grip, but it wouldn’t matter soon, as Michael yanked the knife out and more blood splattered and Bruce’s face, frozen in shock, some strange pain. He slid down, but not before he fumbled your knife from his pocket and set it in your hands. Like he was begging you to save yourself. It was all wrong- your father had died a coward and not like this but here he was and here he wasn’t. Bruce dropped to the ground and, then all you could think of was Hillsan-

The same face. That same terror. That same absolute fear and pain and nothingness. The air conditioner rattled like laughter, the blood was warm like a kiss. Bruce was on the ground, and the blood was spreading across the tiles and under your boots and you only managed to tear your gaze away because you felt like you were going to be sick. The horrible feeling of disconnect between reality and yourself, as if what was happening couldn’t be real but it was and it was shattering. 

You looked up. Focused on the scene, focused on Michael. His knife was raised again and he was poised, you realized, to finish the job with the sobbing cashier. You felt yourself moving before you realized it. 

“No!” you shouted, “No- stop!” and grabbed Michael’s arm, holding it back. Resistance for a moment. Michael spun around suddenly, facing you- and his eyes were so dark and then his hand was- _crushing your throat_, and you choked out a cry, and the knife was dripping with blood and it was gleaming and catching the light and it was diving right towards you-

And then he stopped.

He let go. He lowered the knife. He stepped back, and then locked up entirely, realizing what he had done, what he nearly had done. Froze and stared right at you. As one of your bloodied hands went up to your throat, disbelieving, realizing. Denial and betrayal was painted in every line of your face, and you began to back away. You opened your mouth, but words didn’t come. 

_”Oh, he might not mean to, but it’s just in his nature,” whispered the memory of Hillsan._

_It’s just in his nature._

“No,” you mouthed.

_It’s his nature_.

Michael wasn’t walking any closer. He was just standing there. His eyes, on you, not dark anymore but the shadows seemed so long now. Blood was soaking into the floor tiles. The sound of sobs. 

The beep of the phone. Your attention snapped to it, and you realized, he’d called the police. Ghostface. Or not. Maybe just the police, or a customer, but you knew you had to go, now. You wanted to just bolt out of the store, into the woods, but you couldn’t. You had to run, but you had to wait, you couldn’t leave Michael here because then he’d finish what he’d started so- so you had to wait. You held Michael’s gaze, and then ran to the car, him following close behind. Each step brought you farther away from the crime but the blood was still fresh and your eyes burned. You entered the passenger side. Michael entered the driver's seat. Before you knew it, the truck was in gear and the gas station was going, going, gone, eaten up by trees. Your eyes were still blown wide and your entire body trembling and your heart coiled and frozen with mortal terror, unspeakable ache and sorrow and acrid betrayal, vindication. That tiny little voice in your mind, ever paranoid, ever simperingly sweet, _It’s only a matter of time._ It had been right. 

Michael drove on. 

And in a few hours, you’d leave the truck and never return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (° ͜ʖ°) oh no


	13. Hallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone was dead now. Someone real. And even if they weren’t, you couldn’t forget the look in Michael’s eyes. Couldn’t forget his hand on your neck and that sudden horrifying moment when you realized, _you were going to die_. Because then the memories blended together and you could see Ghostface staring at you, could hear his laughter and feel that same exact terror.

Time passed. The blood on your face and chest had dried, but the feelings remained. Every now and again, your hand would reach up to brush some off, but there always seemed to be more, flaking away under your touch. Like you were falling apart with it. The cut across your arm had opened again and- if you stopped scraping away the scab, maybe it wouldn’t, but you just kept ripping into the wound and wiping away the blood and, and absolutely not looking over to the Shape. 

Maybe it had been hours. It might have been. The shock had long since faded to horror, joined by disbelief and fear. Fear in your eyes and every little motion- every time he would move, you’d flinch, and then pretend that you hadn’t because you weren’t sure what was going to set him off and you wanted to scream or maybe to cry. Two people were dead now, because of you. All because of you. Maybe Bruce wasn’t dead, but… there had been so much blood. Blood underneath your fingernails, coating the handle of your knife, caked onto the sleeves of your jacket. 

You couldn’t help yourself; you curled inwards, and sucked in an empty cry. And of course, the movement made Myers turn to you, and then you were staring wide eyed at the floor with tears that wouldn’t come, begging him to turn away, to leave you alone. But then, his hand was going towards you, and you _flinched_.

“N-” you began, then stopped, setting on freezing entirely, your body shaking. The hand didn’t move. You realized, after a moment, that he had set it onto your leg. Like before. Like comfort. Half of your body screamed for you to shove him away, but you couldn’t, and you had to do _something_, so you compartmentalized. Slowly, rigid and mechanical, you unfolded your body. Your throat felt like it was burning. A choked inhale, and then you forced your head up too, turning halfway, looking anywhere but his face, and then, you smiled. It was not a happy smile; it was a desperate one. Every one of your limbs trembled. 

The moment was held for too long. He looked like he wanted to say something, do something. He- he was hesitant. Something in his movements, part of you whispered. Something about how he lingered. He wanted to… something. Maybe he was debating how to finally kill you too. Or maybe he wanted to, apologize. Maybe. Maybe. The Shape let go, but part of you desperately wanted to ask. It wanted to have him say he was sorry, so you could accept it and move on like nothing had ever happened. Even if he didn’t mean it. Even if it was a lie. But, you couldn’t. Because he had-

He’d-

Someone was dead now. Someone real. And even if they weren’t, you couldn’t forget the look in Michael’s eyes. Couldn’t forget his hand on your neck and that sudden horrifying moment when you realized, _you were going to die_. Because then the memories blended together and you could see Ghostface staring at you, could hear his laughter and feel that same exact terror.

It was supposed to be okay now. You were supposed to be safe. This was supposed to be the right choice, and everything would be fine, and maybe something more. But no. No, this wasn’t some action movie. It wasn’t even a horror flick. It was real life, and it was terrifying. 

The air was cold and sharp against your throat as you inhaled, took in a breath into your dry mouth, the first words in hours, “Michael…”

Michael’s head snapped to you. You forced yourself to look into his eyes, and for a moment, you thought you’d see darkness there again. But, there wasn’t. It was just that same warmth, muted light, something pleading and almost desperate too. You swallowed thickly, and lied through your teeth.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

Almost immediately, his attention was back to the road, scanning the horizon. It was nearly the edge of the forest, close but not quite, and there wouldn’t be a rest stop for another hour. Slowly, he pulled the car to the side of the road. Set it in park. Turned to you.

“Alone,” you stated. It wasn’t a question, or a suggestion. Not like before, where everything was a choice or a question or whatever. He wouldn’t be getting out of the car with you to guard the trees. He wouldn’t be waiting by the truck to make sure you were ok. Michael stared at you in obvious conflict, and the part of you that had never had any sense finally shouted, “Just- _leave me alone._”

Was that a flinch? You felt a horrible, vindictive satisfaction at the idea, and at the same time, a curdling sorrow. You kept thinking back to how close you’d felt at the campfire. You kept thinking of the bruise on your neck. So instead of thinking any longer, you quietly unbuckled yourself, and stepped out of the truck. 

The air was warmer here. It wasn’t the forests and grasslands of before, but it wasn’t quite desert. Not yet. Soon, though. This was probably the last forest you’d see, if you remembered, and that meant this was the only chance you’d have. Painfully languid, you took another step away from the truck. One foot in front of the other, never too fast, never enough to reveal anything. The first of the trees enveloped you, and then another, deeper into the forest. You could feel his eyes on the back of your neck. You kept your casual pace, until the truck was fully out of sight.

A moment. You held your breath. Finally dared to look back, just to assure yourself that, yes, there was no sight of it. That you were alone. 

You ran. 

You ran faster than you’d ever run in your life. Faster than trying to outpace the rain. Faster than on the track team, going for the win. Every slam of your boot into the dirt seemed to urge you on more, more, until you were sprinting with reckless abandon, sheer desperation coloring every swing of your arms and shallow breath. You ran, and you kept running, because you knew that it was only a matter of _minutes_ until the Shape noticed you were gone and would be chasing after you. Tracking you down. He wouldn’t be so forgiving when he found you, you knew, because you were betraying his trust but wasn’t that fair when he betrayed yours? It didn’t matter, and so you ran. To the distant sound of a highway, where you’d flag down a ride, and then you’d be gone. You didn’t care if you had to crawl the last length of the way; you’d get to Ghostface’s mask, you’d _end him_, and then, you’d- you’d.

You didn’t want to think about it.

The forest swallowed you up, and you disappeared. 

“That’s right, keep going,” Ghostface whispered. He was watching you, like he always did. But this time, he was watching you as you were _alone_. Oh, you’d run for a good while, and wasn’t that fun, watching you sprint out onto a highway to wait. You looked lost. You had the most perfect look on your face, and Ghostface itched to take a picture. Not yet, though, he had to have patience. He hummed a little more, adjusting the shot, “Don’t mind me…”

You turned. You didn’t realize it, but you were looking right at him now, and the way the sunlight dappled your face just right as you held out an arm to flag down a car? “Perfect,” Ghostface whispered, “That’s the image I’ll keep of you.”

Click. Your nose scrunched up like you’d heard it, but you didn’t, you never did. You only noticed when Ghostface wanted you to notice. And right now, watching you get into the car, well, he was going to wait a little. He had plenty of time, after all. 

Now that the Shape was gone.

Through the radio of the car, Ghostface listened to your scared voice, the little lit of it against the tinny sound of warped jazz. If he really wanted to, he could reach out right now and kill the worthless driver, grab you and take you. Hear that scared voice again, directed to him, the way your eyes would go wide and you’d bunch up your hands. How you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop him. Oh, Ghostface wanted to. But, no. He had this all planned out, and he was going to follow his plan. You’d _love_ it. He’d finally have you, and you wouldn’t be able to say no. Patience, though, just had to wait. Just a little while longer now. 

Well… he couldn’t resist teasing you. Maybe just a little something on the radio to set the mood, right? Your favorite song. He knew it by heart. And his voice whisper crackled as the song swapped, lost to the static and the silence, the two simple words, “_You’re mine._”

Two thousand miles away, Jake Young sat on a bench. It wasn’t a particularly nice bench, but that didn’t matter, not when you were <del>dead</del> gone. Two thousand miles away, Quentin Young held his head in his hands and cried at his police station desk. The detectives warned of the worst.

Your last text to them had said, I love you. They wished they’d said that they’d loved you more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone! Next chapter I finally tie it all together, just in case you haven’t figured it out yourself. And then after that is my favorite, favorite chapter. I think you’ll love it too.


	14. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old woman’s voice was quiet but cautionary, as she whispered,“If he claims you, he will become real.”

The car drove off. You watched it from the corner of your eye, as it rounded the corner and disappeared into the sprawling cityscape, leaving you alone. There was still the remnant of your half smile on your face, but as you took in the city around you, what was once a smile became a sad sort of twist, all decayed and crumbling. The driver had taken you as far as they could, through hours of desert, before dropping you off here in the city. 

Wherever here was. 

“Keep it up,” you muttered to yourself, “Get a hold of yourself.” It wasn’t night yet, but maybe it would be soon, the way the sun yawned across the horizon and the shadows splayed out. You were hours from the forest. A hundred miles away from- from Michael.

Somehow, you felt both relief and distress at that. A bitter mixture, to be sure. 

But, that didn’t matter now. It couldn’t matter. All that mattered was finding Jake’s sister’s house, and then getting that goddamn mask, and _burning it_. Everything would be fine. You were so close, you couldn’t- couldn’t afford to get distracted. Not now. Instead, you steeled your expression, and turned straight to the nearest shop. Ask where you were, leave, find a ride. Your stalk was more of a limp down the street, and as you passed by the mouth of an alleyway, you heard a gentle hum.

“My my,” a soft voice whispered. You were spinning in an instant, barring your teeth and going for a knife and then- blinking. With your hand still wrapped around your knife, you registered the old woman. Just an old woman. An old woman who was, staring right at you, with a kind yet curious expression. Almost a little mischievous, some set of her eyes, and she shuffled around once to make a squawking noise that you belatedly realized was a laugh.

“What?” you asked, off-kilter.

She rose a hand to her face, smile growing a little, “The blood, dear.”

Blood? Oh. You brought your hand back, blinked at the red flakes, then paled. That would explain, at least, why only the single car had stopped for you. And why he had drove so fast. You opened your mouth to say something, but then closed it when you realized you didn’t know what to say. For the first time in however many days, you just felt embarrassed. Then the old lady cackled, like an engine backfiring, and she gestured to somewhere off to the side.

“You should get cleaned up before you scare anyone,” she tittered, and without another word, she turned around and beckoned you to follow. Were it anyone else, you wouldn’t have. But, it was just one little old lady, who looked worse off than you. _And_ you had a knife. You reasoned that your odds against her were pretty good. Even without Michael. 

So you followed her.

The other end of the alley opened up, revealing a very small park- perhaps it wasn’t a park at all, but just an empty space. Empty, except for an equally small building, tucked near the back, like a storage shed. There was a shopping trolley beside it, covered in cloth, and the old woman ambled over to the shopping cart and began to rummage around. You shifted. 

“Are you-” was there a better way to say this? “Homeless?” You attempted. It came out ruder than you wanted it to. But rather than the angry offense that you expected, the old woman just glanced over to you with some unreadable expression, before turning back to the cart.

“I don’t know, am I?”

Before you could interpret that, she handed you a cloth and a bottle of water, and then pointed to the bench. You mumbled a thanks and sat down, roughly cleaning your face and then, after a pause, drinking most of the bottle of water, dumping the rest on your face for one last scrub. You felt vaguely grungy, and as you sat there, hunched in on yourself, you felt very small too. 

“Stop that,” the woman chided, slapping your hand away from your arm, where you’d been picking at the scabs again without realizing. She looked very put upon, “Keep doing that and they’ll scar, you know.”

“I know,” you muttered, and didn’t elaborate. 

There was shuffling. You looked up after a few minutes, only to see a barrel fire being made, some loose wood thrown in and- and a tea kettle, positioned overtop. The smoke was a vibrant sort of orange, and the ash flaked away into the wind, glowing embers of once cardboard now made like little stars into the slowly shifting twilight. It was nice. It smelled like old tires, but it was nice.

The old lady shuffled back over to you, taking a seat opposite you on a small chair she seemed to have found. You toed the empty water bottle around, used the dirty rag to pat at the blood on your arm. She was the one to first speak.

“You looked like you could use someone to talk to,” she stretched a little as she said that, in a lazy way, then tilted her head and leaned back, palms flat on her legs, “Am I right?”

“No.”

There was silence for as long as you could stand it. Then, you finally looked back up, into her eyes. She seemed familiar, like Hillsan had been; something about the eyes. You snorted hair out of your face as you looked away, and she stood up, going for the tea kettle and humming as she did whatever she did. 

Finally, you broke. You never were very good at playing silent before, and you were so tired now. 

“I-” you swallowed thickly, “I got two people killed.”

There was tea in front of you now, one of your angry tears rolling into it as you took a sip. It tasted like green. And home. You clenched the cup harder, and tried not to weep. Her voice didn’t cut the silence so much as she parted it, like the branches of a tree.

“Did you?” she murmured, voice old and gentle, “Or was it those men with you?”

Your eyes shot open. 

“How di-” you stopped, stared at your now empty cup of tea, tried to calculate or come up with some idea. Your voice croaked a little as you attempted, “Did you read my tea leaves?”

She snorted into her cup.

“What? Oh, no,” she wiped the mess from her face with a tattered sleeve, waving the question away with a little laugh that slowly faded, “Your face, dear. It’s all over the news, and, well, on every corner too.” You parsed the news like untangling yarn, and you almost missed her sigh, but not the way her voice creaked like aging floorboards in a home, “Though it would be nice, if I was a fortune teller. It would make everything a lot easier.”

There was more tea. You poured her another cup as well, minding the manners that Jake and Quentin had given you, before sitting back down. The steam curled under your nose and warmed your cold fingers, the world bathed in great swaths of purple twilight and dusty shadows, like the beginning of some kind of strange dream. 

“Were you lonely?” 

Lonely? You tilted your head, slow, deliberate sips of the tea to make it last, “I, I don’t understand.”

“As a child, I mean,” she clarified, eyes sharp despite her years, staring at your face, “You seem like you were a sad child,” and she sniffed, “You have sad eyes.”

You’d never had a grandmother, but you imagine that if you did, this was what it would’ve been like. Maybe. Talking about your troubles over tea. You looked to her, your hands cradling the cup to your chest like some kind of shield, then you looked into the fire, into the drifting little embers, like fireflies in the dark. Every policeman and media outlet in the state knew your story, and retelling it came easy, so long as you didn’t focus on it. And didn’t think about it. 

“I was. I think. I don’t know,” you swirled the tea around, “My father stabbed my mother to death over- over who would take me to school the next morning. It-” you sniffed to cover up a voice crack, the heady mantra of _don’t think about it, don’t think about it_, “I don’t remember.”

Lies. You remembered vividly. White wine, cigarette smoke, and blood. The blood came after. You’d watched it through the railing of the staircase, face pressed against the wood, eyes wide and unblinking. They always argued about who would take you to school. Sometimes they didn’t take you at all. You never knew why that night was any different, but-

“I hid. Upstairs. I think one of the neighbors called the police,” because you were too afraid to, because you were too busy crying to grab the phone, and maybe if you had, maybe one of them would’ve survived, if you hadn’t been so useless- no, no. Deep breaths, “Then Quentin found me. And adopted me. Later. Not then.”

The old woman’s voice was like a tether in a storm, and her tone was gentle, grabbing you, “Why did you hide?”

Your grip on the cup was white-knuckled, and your shoulders hitched, frozen. Your mouth twitched. 

_He was going to kill me too._

“I don’t remember.” 

Her eyes were sharp now, calculated, and her words were carefully chosen, “What happened to you made you stronger.”

Suddenly, your voice exploded, “I was a child!” It echoed off the buildings and into the air, like a great plume of smoke, and it was rage and cracking apart, “I didn’t want to be strong, I w- I wanted to be safe!” and the anger was replaced by sorrow, a deep sort of sadness. You looked back to her, but she just looked sad too.

“You were lonely. You grew up lonely. So, you-” she moved her cup through the air in some motion, “You made friends.”

“When I was ten,” you whispered, remembering late nights in front of the television, the characters that seemed as lonely as you, and you looked up, “Not now. Not like this.”

She had a knowing look. A bitter, knowing look, “Sometimes, you don’t have to mean to. Believing is enough.” Your breath paused, but she continued, “Believe in anything enough, and it could become real,” she looked you in the eyes, held your gaze as you couldn’t seem to look away, “You made one to love, and one to fear.”

Your first instinct was to stand up and call her crazy. The second instinct was to splash the tea in her face. But, you did neither. You remained where you were. You wondered how she knew these things, beyond what she should’ve known, but all you could focus on was what she’d said. One to love. One to fear. Michael, Ghostface, two masks and pure loneliness infused.

“No, no-” you fumbled, “I-” but you had. Oh, no indeed.

“I can’t love him,” you finally settled on, voice breaking, “He killed someone.”

“Did he?”

“I-” yes. Maybe, “I don’t know-” and then you barred your teeth, to hide the wetness in your eyes, the mistiness that remained from earlier now warring with anger, “He hurt me! I-” less solid, wobbling. The words tasted like venom, curdled in your throat. It felt like bugs crawling under your skin, “I can’t forgive him.”

The old lady sniffed, “Then don’t.”

You blinked. 

“It doesn’t have to be okay,” she swirled her tea around, even though the cup must’ve been empty by now, “You don’t have to forgive him. Only that it happened. What you do from there is something only you can decide.”

It sounded like she was speaking the words from a time far off and away, from her own past, long gone. Before, she had seemed old, but now she looked ancient, and so exhausted. She looked up to you, “Do you love him?”

You thought about it. For long enough that the tea on the ground had seeped into the dirt, and the first stars were shining above. 

“I think I do,” you finally managed. 

Her reply was mournful, and not directed to you, but the past, “I did too.”

The silence stretched on. The tea was cold. The fire dimmed. It felt like forever, until she spoke again, and her voice was tired and weary, “You’ll have to make a choice. I just hope you make the right one.”

You stood up. Your face was determined in a way it hadn’t been before, and it felt like some force was flooding your body, some vigor. Hope, maybe. You nodded, and your voice wasn’t as wavy as before, more solid, more sure, “I need to go burn the mask.”

She tilted her head. Like what you said was very curious, “It’s all about what you believe will work.”

A matter of belief. Conviction. She shakily stood up as well, and you reached out to help her, the motion sending your lighter to the ground. You apologized as you went to pick it up, but her hands were faster, a trait age hadn’t stolen. She seemed to stop.

“A lighter?” she tilted her head, and then seemed to still, voice softer, “Oh. Oh, I see.”

“I- an old man gave it to me,” you tried to explain, feeling as though you should. Something about her face made you try. And you didn’t want to say anything more, but the words were out of your mouth before you could take them back, “Before he- died.”

In the darkness, where you couldn’t see, the old lady’s face fell. Like a shutter had gone over it. An old wound, brought open one last time. 

“There’s an inscription, on the case,” her shaking hands pointed it out to you, the faded letters that even you couldn’t read, “It says, for Sarah.” 

She handed it back to you, and you traced the letters, and almost missed the next words. Quieter, not for your ears, she whispered, “He always was sentimental.”

You wanted to ask more. You wanted to, and you opened your mouth to try, but she was quicker. Something she had seen. Her voice was hard, determined and fearful, “You have to go. Quickly,” and she was hurrying you towards a building, yanking planks off the exit, “You have to go before he finds you again.”

And at those words, you too jolted into action, rushing forward to help her, eyes wide with remembering and fear. But as you took the last board down and began to enter, she stopped you. Her face was cautionary. Endless sorrow and deep danger. A warning. The most important warning she could give you, and the last thing she’d tell you.

“If he claims you, he will become real.”

You wanted to ask what she meant by claim. You wanted to.

But then you swore you saw a flash of white, and you panicked. You jolted forward, through the doorway, and she gave one you last look as she closed the door behind you. It was a look that said a lot. It said, I believe in you. You can do it. You have to. It also said, I’m sorry.

Forward. Had to keep moving forward. You’d get a ride to Jake’s sister’s house, and now you knew what you had to do, _had_ to-

A thud, from inside the building. From the door that was just closed. A thud, and then complete silence. You froze. Stared at the door, as if waiting for something to slam through it.

But you should have been paying attention to the other entrance.

Hands on your neck. Nothing like before, no toying around. No, these were just squeezing, and crushing, constricting your air and cutting off the blood flow, the feeling of gloved hands against your throat. Immediately, you panicked. You thrashed against your attacker, kicking and struggling, trying to pry the hands off your neck- and failing. You couldn’t even scream. All that came out was horrible, pathetic wheezing noises that might have been curses, or begging for mercy. Your vision was getting darker. Darker. Tunneling at the edges, and your head was exploding with pain and fear, all at once. Panic fueled desperation became weak struggles, your hands going for a knife you’d never reach, and then stopping entirely. The hands on your throat pulled you against a warm chest, and you heard a familiar voice in your ear. 

“_Shhhh_,” Ghostface whispered, “Don’t struggle. It’ll be over soon.”

Your senses fell away, and the last thing you felt was an embrace, breath on your neck. Then, nothing.


	15. Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ropes left burns on your wrists from where you tried to struggle out, and Ghostface was looming over you, breath spilling across your neck. You were cornered prey, and he was a predator waiting for you to make your choice.

The world returned to you in fragments. The feeling of rope rubbing against your wrists, the smell of some kind of lingering cologne, the cold breeze of autumn cutting through your hair. There was a taste like cotton in your mouth, and something metallic, like blood. Every bone and muscle in your body seemed to cry out in tandem, as something jostled you repetitively. No, someone was moving you. You managed to open your eyes, feeling sluggish and slow, and you were quick to catalogue and categorize everything you saw, in the order that you saw it. Black, black sky and black cloak (coat?), dark grass below- far below. Very distant lights on the horizon, some kind of city. You struggled to put the information together, until you realized, you were on someone’s shoulder, being carried. The rope tying you up and the familiar scent, mixed with your last memory of _Ghostface_ made the culprit clear. Your eyes went wide suddenly, and you jerked your head, strands of red hair flying from view with the motion and your realization.

No, no. The ropes on your wrist held tight, even as you pulled against them, your legs bound in the exact same way. No kicking out of this one, no stabbing him in the back and running off. Still, you thrashed as much as you could, trying to catch the slasher by surprise- maybe he’d drop you, if you were lucky. Or maybe you’d knee him in his fucking face.

No, though, never that lucky. In fact, Ghostface just tightened his grip on you, fingers digging into your coat, and he laughed in that awful way that he always did, one that made you colder than any autumn wind.

“Eager, aren’t you?” he quipped, voice just like always, shadows and smoke, “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

You tried to twist to see what he was talking about, but you couldn’t, only managing to see more of the same, more empty fields of grass and trees, distant lights that seemed far, far away now. But, you barred your face in a snarl, even if he couldn’t see, and then you sucked in a breath to scream as loud as possible. That surely someone would hear and come-

“No one is out here for miles,” Ghostface interrupted you. Your breath froze in your throat, and he patted your back, voice a drawl that was both patronizing and taunting at once, “They’ll never hear you.”

This time, the words that left your mouth were acidic and hateful and- afraid, as you snarled, “Fuck you!” and gave another sharp struggle, accented by kicking your legs into his chest. It didn’t even phase him. If anything, your words made him give a little snort, like it was a hilarious joke.

The walking continued, several minutes of it, and you wrenched your head around once more to try and catch sight of where you were going-

And then you froze.

You recognized the house. Who wouldn’t? It was _the_ Scream house. The house from the movie, bigger than life and painfully real, now that you were staring right at it. It wasn’t identical- the stained glass window, for instance, must have been replaced by the current owner. But it was still the house, with carved Halloween pumpkins on the front porch and half lighting, and suddenly, you knew why Ghostface had brought you here. The slasher made a sort of coo noise, some rumble in the back of his throat, and his pace slowed to something almost languid, letting you take it all in. His knife gleamed in the faint lighting of the driveway lights.

“Just the two of us,” he hummed, lightly shoving you on his shoulder as if for emphasis. He brought his knife up to catch the light better, and you caught a flash of red blood on it, not yours, too fresh, as he continued, “Don’t worry, I got rid of the residents. Couldn’t have them getting in the way, right?”

Nausea rippled through you, tearing through your throat, and you clenched your eyes closed as you tried to breathe. This was just some horrible game to him, and you were the prize. Not like Michael; nothing like Michael. Ghostface took the stairs of the porch two at a time, kicking in the already open door, where it slammed off the wall and echoed through the eerily silent house. It was enough to make you feel ill again, as you looked at the neatly lined up pairs of shoes by the door, juxtaposed by the toppled table and shattered vase. Ghostface stepped through the pile carelessly, into what you recognized as a living room, and then he unceremoniously dropped you onto the sofa. You bounced for a moment, the air leaving your lungs, but you quickly rolled back to your front and hunched in on yourself defensively, legs primed to deliver a kick to his face if he got near.

“Stay away!” you barked, that same bile from earlier permeating the sound, the hatred and the fear, all one emotion and all at once. You were shivering or maybe trembling, from anger or terror. And though you couldn’t see it, you felt Ghostface roll his eyes behind his mask.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured, crossing his arms and then tilting his head to one side, a grin not visible to you, “Unless you want me to.”

Your face morphed to disgust, and that was when you expected him to laugh at his joke, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned in more, stepped closer to you, watching you squirm. His knife wasn’t out, but that wasn’t much of a comfort.

“Y’know, this is usually the part where we get to know each other,” and there was the laugh, at his amazing joke, another step closer, “but you already know everything about me, and…” too close, only a step away, one arm over the side of the sofa, “I already know everything about _you_.”

The old woman’s words jostled around your skull, begging your attention, those simple things, _You made friends_, _one to love, one to fear_, _you_ created _them_. He knew _everything_ about you. Ghostface seemed to keen in on that too, because he was boxing you in now, one hand on both sides of the sofa, leaning so far over you that his mask was only a breath away. Too close, too close, you could feel his own breath on your neck again, just like before, but different now 

“Everything,” he whispered, and your eyes were wide, you were shaking, your legs were frozen like you couldn’t kick him even if you wanted to, and then he was speaking again, “Enough to know what you want.” You felt a hand on your thigh now, his hand, and it was drifting. 

You grabbed on to the one thing you wanted most in the world, the word, the name forced from your lips, defiant and afraid, “Michael.”

Ghostface stopped. You’d thrown him off of his groove, and he didn’t even move for a moment, before suddenly he roared back to life. Angry now, and he stepped back, looming over you instead, gesturing wildly. 

“I- no!” he snapped, grabbing at a part of his cloak, “He doesn’t need you like I need you!” he sounded almost desperate, like he _needed_ you, needed you to listen and understand this, “He only wants you for himself. He’s only going to hurt you again!”

Memories of Michael’s hand around your throat, the fear you felt then. But, at the same time, memories of his own fear in his eyes, of the warmth when he looked at you. Something that you had never seen in Ghostface. Only want, only need. Ghostface stared at you, and seemed to realize that his words hadn’t swayed you, and then both of his hands were on the sides of his head and he paced for a moment, before turning roughly and sharply back to you. In one movement, he ripped off his mask. You took in the shock of hair, and his eyes, so intensely focused only on you. Desperation was written in every line of his face, and absolutely, singularly and terrifying, desire. A need, for you and only you. Possession. Obsession. The intensity stole the wind from your words, leaving nothing to escape your mouth. His movements were methodical now, careful, his eyes never leaving yours. One step to the couch, two, and then he was stepping onto it, big enough to fit both of you side by side but he was moving towards you. A hand in front of the other, and he was speaking now too.

“I know that you’re afraid. I know everything about you,” he whispered, and then he was over you, his chest over yours, both of his hands boxing you in. Your legs were still drawn in for an attack, but if that bothered him at all, he didn’t even show it. Instead, he kept staring you down, his eyes drinking in every inch of your face, and he leaned in slowly, “Just say that you’re mine. You’ll never be afraid again,” closer, “I’ll keep you safe for the rest of your life,” his breath washed over your neck, his nose nearly touching yours, lips parted, heat undercutting every word, “I want you,” he breathed, “I _need_ you.” You could feel his chest shudder as he spoke, the words nearly flowing into you, “Just say it. Just say the words,” and no matter what you did, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him, as he whispered, “Say that you’re mine.”

If you moved even a hair, your lips would meet. He would fulfill every promise in his eyes. He would take you and make you unravel, make you into a god. He wanted you. He needed you. He would hold you close and never let you go and- and, a part of you whispered, he would never let you live again. He would suffocate everything that you were, until all that was left was his. Every moment, just like this one. A world of safety. No more fear, no more being afraid. No more living, ever again. But would that be a bad thing? All you had to do was lean in and say those words, capture his lips and seal your fate. Just two little words. Pain or safety. Growth or stagnation. 

You opened your mouth to answer, vocal chords crackling-

But you were stopped by the sound of a cry. Not your cry, but something from a nearby room, someone else. A cry of desperation, and of despair, slipping out between fingers and broken by- tears. You froze. Ghostface froze too. Then, his face morphed to something like vague unhappiness, annoyance. He leaned back.

“Just a second,” he sighed, stepping off the sofa, leaving his mask as he pulled out his knife and stalked towards the source of the noise. You blinked, watching him retreat, and then the sound of a scream of absolute terror threw you back into focus. From the room he had just entered. Someone he must not have found before, or someone unlucky enough to survive this far. They were begging for mercy- but there would be none. And that’s when you knew, you had to escape him. 

You hiked your legs up and shoved your arms as far as you could, barely grasping the knife in your boot and then yanking it out. Frantically, you flicked it open and began to saw through the ropes on your wrists, as the scream repeated itself, louder. They were sobbing. They were _begging._

“Please- no, no, _no, please no-_”

The sobs turned into a shriek, followed immediately by the sound of wet impact, a stab. And then, another. The ropes on your wrists fell off, and you began to tear through the ones on your legs, as the gurgles from the other room slowly died off, the stabs still loud and decisive, impact after impact, even when the voice was gone. You managed to stand up just as the stabs stopped, giving one horrified glance to the other room, before running out of the living room. Just as Ghostface walked back in. You could hear him stop.

“Where did- oh. Oh, I see what’s happening,” his voice carried through the house, as you ran through the foyer and slid into the kitchen, the sounds of his footfalls made heavy in comparison. He spoke louder, angrier but more sadistic, “So you want to do this the hard way?” and he didn’t even wait for a reply, as he shouted, “Gladly!”

If nothing else, the fear that submerged you was a fairly good motivator.

You didn’t have any time to waste. Already, the half formed plan from before sprang to the forefront of your mind, and you burst into action, making every second count. You rushed to the stove and then turned on every single burner, without the pilot light, the gas trickling in to fill the room. At the fourth click, though, you heard a fifth, unmistakably from behind you, and you turned around to see Ghostface in the doorway, lowering a camera. He had a smile on his face that was pleased and anticipatory, like he couldn’t wait to tear you apart and document every minute of it. You bolted from the room before he could even say something, and so all you heard was his barked laughter, following after you. 

The next room was another living room. More sofas, a fireplace. You vaulted over the sofa, right as you heard a knife whizz through the air and embed itself into the sofa cushion, feathers flying through the air as he ripped the knife back out. He rose the knife back up for another attack, and you panicked, yanking a cushion out and using it to block the slash before it could cut across your face. You shoved the whole thing into his face before he could pull the knife out, and then turned around, running to the side for the exit. Too slow, actually, because then, there he was, right behind you, the knife whizzing through the air and landing in your leg. You screamed as you went down, and the pain was electric, almost immediately dulled by the flood of adrenaline. That same adrenaline that kept you going, gave you the strength to roll to the side and grab the fire poker from the fireplace. As he went in for another stab, you slammed the metal poker right into the side of his head. The metal bent at the impact, but it was nothing compared to the satisfying sight of him doubling over and grabbing his head.

“Fuck! That HURT!” he shouted. You scrambled up as he held his head, and you imagined that if he was playing around before, now he was not. Back into the kitchen. You had a plan. Needed more gas. More time. You almost slid across the tiled floor, as blood dripped from your legs and under your shoes. Ghostface wasn’t far behind. But he was far enough behind that you rushed into the laundry room and then slammed the door in his face, buying you just enough time to rush into the garage proper. That door, you slammed so hard it rattled in its frame, and then your trembling hands locked it shut. Ghostface was banging his fists against it, kicking it with everything he had, and screaming.

“You think this will stop me?!” he roared, the terrifying sight of the handle being rattled, “Oh, I can’t wait to hold you down and make you scream!” 

There were some chairs nearby, some heavy objects strewn about, and you piled as many as you could in front of the door, as quickly as possible. Maybe it would work, maybe it would kill you. There wasn’t enough time for anything else- you had to keep going. So, you tuned out Ghostface’s threats, the way he shouted your name in the silence. Instead, you turned your attention to water heater. Specifically, the black gas line pipe, the one you’d learned about from Jake. There was a monkey wrench on the ground, and you scooped it up, before reeling your arms back and then slamming the tool into the gas line. Once, twice, again and again, as hard as you could, until the metal pipe dented, bent, finally broke. Gas began to flood the room. You heaved in gulps of air, sweat on your brow and dripping to the ground. Your leg wound was now an almost agonizing throb, the adrenaline ebbing out, and you wanted to sit down and just sleep, but you couldn’t. Not yet, and not soon. 

“Gotta- gotta find a way out,” you mumbled, gazing around. There was a jerry can by some boxes, and the garage entrance, and as you opened up the jerry canister and kicked it to the ground, you turned your attention to the stairs, half hidden in the back. Stairs to the attic of the garage. The garage door was a tempting sight, but you remembered the movies, and you wouldn’t take that chance. Instead, with the gas spread around, you crawled up to the staircase. Boxes were thrown out of the way. The steps were rickety, unused, but you got to the top and shoved the trapdoor open, crawling inside. It was pitch black up here, and you squinted- your knife was in your hands again, a kind of comfort, just like the lighter in your pocket. Slowly, you closed the trap door behind yourself, and then you carefully, silently stood up. 

Of course, that was the moment that Ghostface lunged. 

From the shadows, where he’d been waiting, he attacked. He immediately slammed into you, the knife attack blocked by your arm instead of your chest. It still hurt, and you still yelled something hoarse, trying to shove him off. But instead of that, he grabbed you by the chest, and then threw you as hard as he could into a pile of something. Boxes, maybe, or cinder blocks if the sharp pain to your head was any indication. Your head was swimming. Not enough to stop you, but enough that you had to blink away stars, as he flew into view for another slash. 

“No!” you shouted, just barely twisting out of the way. Barely wasn’t good enough. Barely meant you still got slashed across your back, and you let out a wordless cry, curling in on yourself, your legs brought to your chest. He took that as an opening. He loomed over you-

And he was at just the right angle for you to send your leg out like a whip being cracked, slamming right into his jaw, all the force of a cornered, terrified animal, all in that one kick. It was a good kick. He went sprawling to the ground, groaning and holding his skull, unable to stop you from stumbling to your feet and half-running half-limping out. The door was thrown open and then shut, and a bedroom greeted you. A crawlspace, some stairs leading down to the laundry room. Perfect. Carpet under your feet, as you rushed into the crawlspace, then closed the door behind yourself, praying that your blood didn’t give you away. It was dark and musty, but you curled in on yourself, counted your luck, and then, you waited.  
And waited 

Eventually, you heard the sounds of Ghostface picking himself up. Small curses, from his throat, and nearly tripping over his feet. He was looking around; he was looking for you.

“Where are you?” he growled, then louder, something intended for you to hear, “Do you think you can hide? I am going to _break you!_”

He stomped around. You heard him look under the bed, in the closet, around every corner. There was a single, unmoving moment when you swore he was going to check the crawlspace, but he didn’t. Instead, the unmistakable sound of a door opening and then shutting, as he went out into the hall. 

Safe. You were safe. There was blood in your mouth, and pain radiating through your skull, a headache and fatigue all rolled together, blood gushing from your arm, trickling down your back, staining the ground. But, you were safe- for now. That had to count for something. You wanted to laugh and you wanted to cry, but instead, you only tucked your head onto your knees, and remained there. Waiting. Waiting, until you were certain he was gone.

Time passed. You figured it was as good a time as any, and slowly you began to struggle out, careful to be silent as you did. You had to find the right spot to pull the trigger on this powderkeg, and then- then you could leave. And find Michael. Tell him you were sorry, tell your dads you were sorry, go back home and sleep for a week. That was a nice dream. A dream that made you smile.  
And, a dream that made you miss the way the shadows in the corner weren’t quite right.

“So, _that’s_ where you were,” Ghostface hummed, pushing off from the bannister of the staircase. You bristled, froze. Looked right up to him, at his face staring down at you, at the emptiness in his eyes. Immediately, you tried to rush back into the crawlspace, but he was faster. His hand, reaching down and then cinching around your neck. Tight enough to bruise, to make your airways crush and your heart clench. He lifted you up into the air and then slammed you against a wall, enough to make your head swim with it, what little oxygen you had leaving your lungs. You tried to stab him with your knife, but he grabbed it with his free hand, tossing it to the ground. He stared you right in the eyes for one terrible, silent second. And what scared you most was that the emptiness was gone, and replaced by something far worse: cruelty. Not love, but possessive desire- and sadness, too, a child who was about to break their favorite toy, so no one else could play with it. 

Then you registered the knife. It took less than a second for it to connect, shoved into the space below your stomach, digging in to the flesh. You kicked at him. You punched at his arms, tried to scream, tried to beg or cry. He just took the knife out, and shoved it in harder. Your struggles slowed. 

Down. Ghostface released you, and you landed in a heap, a pile of pain and agony and fear. Blood, staining the carpet, blood under your hands as you crawled out into the hallway. Had to get to the windows, to the bannister, somewhere to escape. There had to be an escape. Blood rushed from your mouth, and you coughed the name, “Michael.” Ghostface just laughed.

“He’s gone. I told you to love ‘em while you can, didn’t I?” Ghostface was standing over you, delighting in watching you crawl and writhe, shiver and tremble, “He’s gone now, and you’re mine. But… you don’t have to die.”

Hands. Hands, picking you up. He was holding you up by your jacket, by your chest, and you managed the stubborn strength to bring one hand up to try and resist his grip. His eyes were burning into you, “Just say the words. You don’t have to die; I can keep you safe forever,” that California nights breath, that voice of smoke and shadow, that look of want and need, “You’re already mine. Just say it.” Desperation. Desire. 

Your hand slid into your inner pocket. You gurgled something, too faint for him to hear. So he leaned in, just enough to hear what you had to say. Not enough to see your hands close around your lighter. He thought he had already won, that nothing you could do would stop him. So he indulged you, just for one second.

A second was nothing. A second was everything. You whispered headily and broken into his ear, “Gotcha.”

Then, you flicked open Hillsan’s lighter, and the house exploded. 

It was a loud sound. It was a shattering sound, of flames all igniting at once. It was almost beautiful, in that way, as you watched the ring of flame erupt outwards from your lighter ignition point, a moment of brief fire spreading through the room before some invisible force pushed outwards, and then the entire world exploded in an inferno. The blast wave blew you and Ghostface apart, sending you back through the window and him to the bannister. Without his mask, you could see every emotion on his face. The shock, as he was coated in fire, and then the almost confusion, the realization, and then, a smile, before he was blown over the bannister and into the gaping maw of flame. 

You didn’t fare much better. The glass behind you shattered, and you flew out through it, your own eyes wide with surprise, surprise that it had worked at all. And, pain, the flash explosion leaving burns across your exposed arms and hands, the flesh turned raw and scorched. The whole action seemed like it was in slow motion, a ringing in your ears, everything so so painfully bright. It was so bright- it was brighter than anything you had ever seen before, and yet, you couldn’t tear you eyes away. The glass shards around you were all shining, all reflecting the same blaze that was consuming the entire house, and Ghostface with it.. Your arms were flying in front of yourself, and the house was getting further away, which meant the ground was getting closer, and you realized the lawn was right there-

Impact. Your head hit first. The world went black.

Darkness. Pain. You opened your eyes slowly, and the house was still burning. But, you tasted copper in your mouth and everything was fuzzy now, impossible to focus on anything without an effort, and breathing made a wet, rattling sound with every attempt. Pain was spiking through you, lancing through ever limb- you couldn’t move your legs, and your arm was bent at a sickening angle. 

_Oh_, you thought, _This can’t be good._

You tried to inhale, but started coughing, the movement painful and breaking and there was blood- there was, there was a lot of blood. Your blink was slow as your coughs croaked off. 

“I’m- I’m dying,” you said softly, in an almost disbelieving tone. A part of you wanted to scream, or cry for your parents, or get up and force yourself to keep going, but. But you did none of those things. Instead, you turned your gaze back to the house, to the fire and flame. It was okay, because as you watched the inferno engulf the house, you didn’t need to live forever; just long enough to watch Ghostface die.

Time passed. The agonizing faded to a dull ache, as your body tried feverishly to keep you going. Time passed, but you didn’t know how much- it couldn’t have been long, despite your slowly darkening vision, the way each breath was shorter than the last. It was so cold, despite the heat of the fire. Everything felt so cold. Vaguely, you registered the sound of footsteps- slow, at first, but then picking up speed, running. They stopped abruptly, right beside you, and as you blinked, you watched as Michael appeared. Somehow, you smiled.

A blink, like sandpaper and so much effort, and then the scene had changed a little. His mask was gone, and he was on his knees, leaning over you, hands hovering in the air like he had no idea what to do, not even a clue. You forced yourself to focus on him, on his face. His eyes were wet like he might have been crying, the mistiness reflected by the orange and reds of the fire, like a sunset, like that first sunset when he saved you. And here he was again, like some kind of avenging angel. One that was too late, this time, but not too late to be with you, one last time. It made him look like a dream. Not neon, but so very real. It certainly felt like a dream. Everything was slipping away, every thought like dirt between your fingers. 

“It’s okay,” you whispered- the only sound you could make, now, and even that hurt so much, more than anything before, “I think I love you.”

You remembered the old woman’s words, about claims. About becoming real. Ghostface, trying to claim you, desperate. But you were here now. Michael had his knife, and you looked to it, then to his face. He looked beautiful. Blood dripped from the corners of your lips, as you tried to smile, tried to speak. You didn’t want him to die with you. He deserved to live. So, with hands that were weak- so, so weak, weaker than the worst sickness, weaker than the first gasp of spring- you reached forward. Sheer force of will, pure stubbornness, as you clasped your hands around that knife. 

“Claim me,” you choked, “So you c- an be real, even when I’m dead.”

You were too weak for anything else. All you could do was lay there, broken bones, broken lungs, tear tracks on your face and warmth in your dying eyes. The pain was gone now. It didn’t hurt anymore- not even cold, just nothing. Michael was holding your hand. You were crying. Michael leaned in, and you thought, _this is it_, but there was no stab. No, just that gentle leaning in, until his face was over yours, and there was something like heartbreak in his eyes, confusion and hurt and sadness, like he’d never felt anything like it before. Tunnel vision made him the only thing in your world now, and he was only a breath away. This close, you could smell autumn, and you swore you could smell maple on him too. Your vision was going dark, so dark. But Michael was still here, and he closed the last bit of distance, pressing his lips to yours with the utmost lightness. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t see, and you couldn’t speak, but somehow, you managed the last bit of strength to press your lips against his too, and you kissed. 

Something warm blossomed in your chest, right as your vision went out. 

Then, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my friends is asking for a bonus, bad ending chapter, a “What if you said yes to Ghostface”. If I did, it would be slightly NSFW, and that’s if I even write it. I guess it depends on what other people want.
> 
> Next chapter is the last one, and then the epilogue! And maybe some extra bonus stuff, depending. Tune in next time for the Fate of the Protagonist ™


	16. Recover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We did it,” you murmured, and then with slightly more force, as much as you could manage, “We did it.”

Something smelled like maple. Your entire world was narrowed down into fragments, brief snatches of color and sensation, gone too fast to grasp. Darkness, and pain, and cold. Trying to hold on to the things just made them slip away quicker. It was so hard to even focus. To think at all. Every thought was muddled and broken, and you were so tired. Exhausted, that was the word. But, something smelled like maple, and you held onto that like a lifeline, letting everything else wash over you. 

Senses returned to you one by one. It felt more like a jumbled mess than any coherent order, but you ached with exhaustion, and that made everything seem so much slower too. It was scent that returned first- maple, of course it was maple, blinding comfort. Something else in the background, too, muddling everything else. Antiseptic. It smelled like cold cleanliness, and the air was so dry it chafed your nose. There was a beeping noise that you hadn’t even noticed before. Steady. The sound of something like an air compressor back at the shop, and quieter, someone breathing near you, slow and deep. You could feel warm air from a heater occasionally washing over you, and someone was holding your hand in their own; you twitched your hand, feeling calloused fingers, feeling the grip reflexively tighten ever so slightly. There was a horrible taste like cotton in your mouth, but it was nothing compared to the brightness that was sneaking through the lashes of your eyes. Barely open, and it was seering, almost blinding. But you had to figure out what was happening, where, who, and so you screwed your expression tighter and opened your eyes wide.

Blink, blink. The pain receded and your eyes adjusted. You were staring at a hospital room, you realized, through the muddled feelings of _ugh_ and _pain_. A hospital. The heart monitor continued to beep, and you dragged your gaze slowly across the room, trying to pick it apart as recollection flooded back. There was- there was a fire, an explosion. You eyes landed on the sole figure in the room, and for a moment you recoiled-

_Ghostface-_

_California laugh, smoke, fingers on your skin, he was going to break and make you scream and he promised it would only hurt the first few times and he was going to paint you red-_

There was a hand on your face. You twisted to recoil, but even that motion made your body cry, every muscle and bone a chorus of agony, and you had to blink away a haze until you focused on the image of Michael. _Michael_. His hand cupped your cheek lightly, barely even there, but anchoring you. Taking you out of the memory. The heart rate monitor was slowly climbing back down, and Michael waited there, letting your breathing level off. A nurse poked their head into the room, but then left just as quietly. Finally, Michael pulled back. Sitting back down in the chair he had pulled up to your bedside. You exhaled shakily, a little rattling noise, and the last claws of fear ebbed out of your system. It was just Michael. Just Michael. Ghostface was dead, he was _gone_. You had seen the house go up in flames with him in it. You were safe, he was gone.

Maybe if you said it enough times, you’d believe it too.

Leaning back down into the bed, you let your eyes unfocus for a moment, exhaustion in your limbs again after the adrenaline had left. You’d been running on adrenaline for the past week, and now that it was gone, all your accumulated aches and pains were coming back to attention. Both of your arms were wrapped tight in gauze, and the left arm was in some kind of cast or splint, something to make it impossible to move. You could feel wrappings on your torso too, around your stomach, from where- from where Ghostface had stabbed you. Focusing was hard, though, and even the dim lighting of the room felt like too much to your sensitive eyes. You could have just slept, but you were… stubborn. You didn’t want to, and maybe you were a little afraid too. Afraid that if you went to sleep, you’d wake up somewhere else, and this time, Ghostface would-

Michael’s hand was squeezing your hand again. You didn’t realize you were shaking until he was there to steady you. Deep breaths. In and out. You squeezed his hand back, and opened your eyes again, leaving your gaze on his face. The sight made you feel breathless again; he looked so- so alive. Something raw was in his expression, something warm in his eyes, and he was looking at you like he’d never see you again. You wondered why, for a moment, until suddenly you remembered all at once. You had been dying. You would have died- you knew that now, now that you could look back and feel horror. But Michael had kissed you. He had- he had… _claimed_ you. You had claimed him. The old woman’s words came back to you all at once, _“If he claims you, he’ll become real.”_, and… and now, you smiled. A small smile, as much as you could make right now, but a smile still. Like a fairy tale fable, the tin man without a heart, the kiss that saved you both, that brought him to life and let him share that life with you. 

The smile faltered at the thought of Ghostface. The phantom sensation of that knife stabbed into you, his predatory smile. He would have lived, if he had won. And no matter what you chose, he would have won. Every outcome but this one, right here, with Michael holding your hand in a hospital and a weak-strong smile on your lips. 

“Hi,” you managed to rasp. The first words since you’d woken up, and they felt like they weren’t enough. You didn’t think you had enough in you to ever be enough. You crackled something else that turned into a dry cough, and Michael moved to grab you something as you shifted to sit up more. The painkillers made your headache a dull sort of throb, which made it manageable, for you to sit up and smile lethargically at Michael, for you to even try to reach out your own weak arm to grab the cup he was bringing out. He gave you a look that said ‘no’ without even moving an eyebrow, and then he brought the cup up to your mouth with extreme care, tilting it ever so slightly so that you wouldn’t choke. The water was slightly lukewarm and had a purified edge, and in this moment, it was the best thing you’d ever had in your entire life. You drank it all, and Michael refilled the cup to set by your bedside, before sitting back and beside you and just, staring.

You were both staring. 

Michael had eyes that reminded you of neon dreams and soft glows, intensity and lightness and, the new warmth that you could finally see. You were leaning in close to him, as much as you could, and he was leaning in close to you. The lines of stress on his face were smoothed out now, but there was still a crease in his brow and his shoulders had the set of extreme fatigue. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and maybe that was true, maybe he had been waiting for you to wake up for however long. For this moment. For whatever this was. You were both so close now, and you closed your eyes to set your forehead against his, to let the sorrow and agony and hurt just spill out. There were tears coming from your eyes, but you felt like after all of this, you were entitled to them. Still, you managed a weak little fucked up laugh, before there was just the silence again, just the both of you breathing and the beep beep of the monitor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you- I’m, I’m sorry I hurt you.” You were holding his hand as tightly as you could, like that could transfer every regret you had, every apology and longing, “I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Michael squeezed your hand back, and you opened your eyes to pull back slightly, to look at him clearly. His eyes were heavy with the weight of things unsaid, and you could read grief, you could read sorrow, regret. The soft lightning made everything seem less harsh here, made the hard edges of aches and betrayal lesser. Michael said no words, but that was okay, because he wasn’t someone broken that needed fixing- he was himself, he was a person, and what he didn’t say with words he said with motions. The way his thumb dragged across the back of your hand, back and forth in slow movements. The way his lips were quirked every so slightly with a smile, pressed together with sorrow, eyes crinkling lightly at the bottoms and eyebrows pushing carefully together. It said, I love you. It said, I’m sorry. And you both closed your eyes again and leaned onto the other, letting the burdens and aches be carried together, lacing fingers together in the silence.

“We did it,” you murmured, and then with slightly more force, as much as you could manage, “We did it.” 

You both pulled back then, and you slumped against your pillows, more exhaustion again, hands still held together. You closed your eyes and mumbled, “What a Halloween,” let the smell of maple wash over you as you sighed, “I just want to go home, I think.” Michael held your hand so lightly, and you could feel the tingling sensation of burns under the gauze, like the ones leading up your arm now that you focused, but you squeezed back despite them, letting yourself drift out of awareness just a little. It was nice. Ironic, because you were in a hospital, but it was nice. 

You weren’t sure how long had passed before you heard the sound of the door being opened. It was a soft sound, betrayed only by the click of the handle turning, and you opened your eyes to see who it was, while Michael tensed beside you. A doctor walked in- some middle aged woman, looking tired but kind. The bags under her eyes were the only sign of how long she must have been working, but she moved with a sureness that spoke of routine and ability, and maybe some coffee to help. She smiled when she saw you watching her.

“Looks like you’re awake,” she greeted, and you tried to focus on her nametag but she beat you to it, “I’m Doctor Ahmed. I just need to check some things on you, it won’t take long.”

She worked quickly. You couldn’t understand half of what she was doing, but she had your clipboard in her hands, writing things down occasionally, checking the machines and asking you how you felt, if you could please inhale deeply, follow my finger for a moment, that kind of thing. Michael was squeezing your hand tight, and his eyes reminded you of the gas station- not darkness, but something like fear. You mumbled something like vague reassurance to him, and while his grip didn’t lessen, his eyes did soften just a little. 

“Well,” Dr. Ahmed began after some time, glancing through your clipboard, “Your vitals look good, you haven’t reported anything wrong with your chest… I think you’re going to recover just fine.” She smiled at you reassuringly, fatigue at the edges of her smile, and she rose an eyebrow as she glanced back down at the file to write, “Two bruised ribs, a compound arm fracture, mild concussion, second degree flash burns on the right arm, multiple laceration wounds across the body and a puncture wound in the abdomen…” she looked back up, “You’re pretty lucky your friend here found you in time.”

Michael didn’t look proud so much as he simply looked steady. Maybe he hadn’t been the one that had wrapped your broken arm, or treated your concussion, but it had been that moment together, that claim, that had given you the life to keep going. So you smiled at him, and made the effort to squeeze his hand back just a little. Dr. Ahmed scratched a few more notes down, then put the clipboard back, making a mumbling sort of noise before she cleared her throat.

“And, since you’re awake, I should tell you that you have some visitors in the lobby waiting to see you,” she looked to you. You could tell she wanted to ask what had happened that left you so injured and only barely hanging on to life, but she had that softness in her eyes like your parents, like she would rather let you rest and recover before trying to ask what had happened to you. “I can have them sent up, if you want.”

Visitors. She had a knowing smile on her face, and so you nodded, curious to see and too hopeful to ask who. She stepped out of the room and began talking with someone in the hall, maybe the nurse from earlier, and you closed your eyes again. There was a radio in the hall that whispered news, “Man makes miraculous recovery after being stabbed at a gas station by masked assailant,” and your face twitched with something like relief, the name _Bruce_ repeated with the static, and you wondered if Michael felt relief too. 

You could pick out voices in the hall. The doctor was talking to people now, voice pitched low and quiet, and you tried to filter out the other sounds to hear what she was saying.

“They are recovering well, but please… careful ... ring for a nurse if anything happens…”

A new voice, one you hadn’t heard in such a long time, “What happened to them, doctor?”

“I don’t know… have to ask the man who saved them…”

The voices grew quieter, then petered off. Footsteps walking away. The door opening. Your eyes were open wide as you watched, breathless, as Jake’s sister stepped into the room. 

“Aunt Li,” you whispered, then your face broke out into a smile. She was familiar, familiar black hair pulled into a ponytail, glasses on her face, and a smile that was half warm half shocked at the sight of you. 

“What has happened to your hair?” were the first words from her mouth, and she clapped a hand over it as if shocked that was the first thing she’d said to you. You laughed with a sound like an engine backfiring, rough and fragmented, and you would have been happy with just seeing her, but then-

Then, two more figures stepped into the room behind her: Jake and Quentin.

Your rusty laughter died off. In fact, it seemed to freeze all together, like the room itself had fallen out of time. You stared at your parents like you couldn’t believe the sight, and you wanted to push out of the bed to run up to them, to hug them and cry and tell them how much you missed them, but all that happened was your voice, so broken and tiny, saying, “Dads?”

Jake squeezed Quentin’s hand like disbelief, and Quentin was the one that managed to reply, “Pancake?” The nickname that you always hated before but sounded like home now. You were crying, trying not to hiccup as you replied.

“I’m not thirteen anymore,” your voice cracked. Then, they both rushed forward to you. They were mindful of your injuries as they both hugged you, holding you so carefully and gently, and you held them right back, the tears blown into messy sobs, ugly things that spoke of grief and longing and family. They were crying too. Michael was still beside you, but he was giving you all space, letting you sob helplessly into the arms of your parents. You were safe. They were safe. It was finally over; you could finally go home.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-”

“We missed you so much,” Jake choked out, face in your hair, “I thought we lost you. Oh god, I thought you were dead, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you-”

And Quentin too, petting the side of your hair, his own tears falling, “You’re safe now, you’re okay, we won’t let anything happen to you, I promise, it’s going to be okay now, you’re okay-”

“I love you both so much,” you managed through tears, like an apology, a reminder, a mantra. 

“We love you too.”

Meanwhile, you could hear Aunt Li sniffling softly at the edge of the reunion, and you pulled back a little to look at her, to tell her that you were sorry as well. She just smiled, a watery smile, and waved the apology away. Instead, she looked over to Michael, who was still sitting quietly in his seat, watching this all with soft eyes.

“This is who saved you?” she asked. You blinked away tears, your chest still shuddering with hiccups, and you looked to all three members of your family for a moment. Trying to think of how to explain this. How to explain any of what happened, for the insane journey and the people you’d met and the one who had saved your life. You knew you couldn't tell the truth (or, not all of it), but you didn’t even know where to start. 

But then Michael reached over and held your hand, and your smile returned again, slight and soft. You knew you could do it, and you knew it would work out. So you opened your mouth to speak, and started at the beginning.

“I was- I was working really late one night…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say, I was floored by the amount of comments I received on the last chapter. I read every single last one of them, and those comments helped motivate me to finish this chapter as well. Thank you all so much! It really brings me joy to see people enjoying the story this much.
> 
> The next chapter is the epilogue, and after that, the bonus chapter. I will preemptively warn that the Ghostface chapter is going to be dark. There is no ‘happy ending’ for choosing Ghostface, at least not in this story. Still, it should be an interesting read. 
> 
> Stay tuned for the final two chapters, everyone! And thank you for sticking around for the ride.


	17. Cider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The breeze tousled your hair, and you leaned into it, Michael at your side, the scent of sea salt and pine mingling. It was nice.

The hospital came and went. Days passed, finally turning into a week; one week, since that house had gone up in flames, one week since it had all finally ended. It almost felt- peaceful. Almost. Every day was quieter than the last, and there was no more blood soaking your clothes, no more phone calls with crackling laughter. Just California breezes and Michael standing beside you.

It was nice here. Your aunt’s house, that is. Staying here almost felt like this was a vacation, and it kind of was, after all that had happened. You were too exhausted to get on a plane anytime soon and your parents didn’t want to push you- they felt guilty, and _you_ felt guilty, and you were kind of too tired to argue against it so that meant you were all staying at your aunt’s house until things went back to normal. The hardware store would be fine for another week, probably.

Another breeze rustled through the window. You leaned on the frame, arms folded (minding the splint on your left arm), and some of your hair blew into view for a moment, your lips twisting as you caught sight of the fading red. Maybe it was a smile. Your auburn hair would fade, and your scars would fade, and the memories, of _what once was and never will be_ would fade too. 

“This is nice,” you murmured, mostly to yourself but also to Michael. You flicked your attention to him and grinned at his almost lazy gaze back, giving him a light tap with your side. He was a little sunburned, but there was something softer about him now, without the harsh edges. When you studied the lines of his face and the set of his shoulders, maybe. It was a far cry from the man of the movies- in the movies, Michael wouldn’t be side by side with you, wearing a hawaiian shirt with avocados on it and sunburned from California sunshine. But, then again, this wasn’t a movie. Life could be softer than that. Imaginary friends made real could smell like maple and give kisses that tasted like pineapple.

You squeezed Michael’s hand as you both turned back to the window. Not so far away was a forest, a treeline that extended somewhere you couldn’t see. Mountains far off in the distance. But below, close, you could see the fire pit, could see the wood stacked to the side where Aunt Li was preparing for a fire tonight. A small one. Very, very small, and controlled, and definitely had nothing to do with the fact that anything larger would make you freeze up and feel impossibly cold. 

It was fine. Right? It was fine. You lightly blew a strand of hair from your eyes, focusing back on the treeline, on the sounds of your parents and aunt downstairs. They were- arguing about what to make for dinner, you snorted. It was a friendly kind of argument, and you leaned your head on your hand as you mouthed the imagined words.

“I want kimchi fried rice,” you mumbled in your Jake voice, then dropped it lower, “No, you can’t serve that, what if Michael doesn’t like spicy food?” the imaginary Quentin said. Higher again, “No kid of mine would ever date someone who didn’t like spicy food,” affronted and slightly offended. You gave a little laugh and you could see Michael’s tiny smile out of the corner of your eye. It made you laugh more, elbowing him with your burned arm. “They like you. The last person I dated- well, dad made super spicy curry. And then, he brought out this thing of milk, and just kept staring them down as he drank the entire thing.”

It was really funny in retrospect, but at the time, kind of mortifying. You hadn’t known someone could even drink that much milk so fast. Or at all. Or especially while looking vaguely disapproving.

But, your parents liked Michael. They- they actually really did. You couldn’t tell them exactly the truth, but what you said was close enough, without them realizing exactly who he was. It was- better this way. And, you’d told them as much as you could about what had happened, too. Some crazy stalker had tried to get you, that you’d run away so he wouldn’t hurt them. How Michael had come with you and kept you safe. That you’d blown up the house, at the end, to escape. Every word you said was true, but you left certain things out- how could you have tried to tell them everything? Ghostface and the Shape and-

No. 

Michael squeezed your hand. You exhaled, shaking the thoughts away and turning your attention back to the forest. Watching it. Watching for- something. Maybe a flash of white, maybe the sound of laughter. Maybe you’d come up here too much, too many times and too often, watching for someone you were terrified would come back. He- he couldn’t. He was dead. _Ghostface was dead_. You’d killed him yourself, in that fire; you had the scars to prove it. He was dead.

But, you still wondered. Worried. Feared. Wondered if you could really kill something that hadn’t been alive to begin with. There was no flash of white in the forest. There wouldn’t be. You tried to tell yourself that, and you almost believed it, just like how you left the radios turned off and hesitated every time you picked up the phone.

“Come on,” you shook yourself out of your thoughts and turned to Michael, giving him a smile that was only slightly wobbly, “Let’s go see what’s for dinner.”

Michael nodded. You both stepped away from the window, and you began to chatter about whatever came to mind as you left the room, letting the sounds carry through the house, letting Michael’s warm presence keep your comfort. And the window stayed open, the breeze blowing the curtains back and forth, and if there _was_ a flash of white in the forest, well, no one was around to see it. Perhaps there hadn’t been one at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap for the epilogue! Stay tuned for the bonus chapter, which will have the Ghostface alternate ending, as well as any bloopers and interesting tidbits you might have missed. 
> 
> I couldn’t resist the image of Michael eating kimchi fried rice in a Hawaiian shirt as his future relatives haze him just a little. What’s family without a little hazing.
> 
> Also, sorry, but the allure of the horror movie esque stinger at the end was impossible to resist. It’s up to you to decide what-if anything- that meant. I’m being genuine when I say it’s open to interpretation. And also that I’m a little shit who loves horror movie ending stingers


	18. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it over?” you asked. The silence didn’t answer.
> 
> Alternate ending, bonus chapters, and extra content

###### Ghostface Alternate Ending

_“I know that you’re afraid. I know everything about you,” Ghostface whispered, and then he was over you, his chest over yours, both of his hands boxing you in. Your legs were still drawn in for an attack, but if that bothered him at all, he didn’t even show it. Instead, he kept staring you down, his eyes drinking in every inch of your face, and he leaned in slowly, “Just say that you’re mine. You’ll never be afraid again,” closer, “I’ll keep you safe for the rest of your life,” his breath washed over your neck, his nose nearly touching yours, lips parted, heat undercutting every word, “I want you,” he breathed, “I _need_ you.” You could feel his chest shudder as he spoke, the words nearly flowing into you, “Just say it. Just say the words,” and no matter what you did, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him, as he whispered, “Say that you’re mine.”_

_ If you moved even a hair, your lips would meet. He would fulfill every promise in his eyes. He would take you and make you unravel, make you into a god. He wanted you. He needed you. He would hold you close and never let you go and- and, a part of you whispered, he would never let you live again. He would suffocate everything that you were, until all that was left was his. Every moment, just like this one. A world of safety. No more fear, no more being afraid. No more living, eve again. But would that be a bad thing? All you had to do was lean in and say those words, capture his lips and seal your fate. Just two little words. Pain or safety. Growth or stagnation._

_ You opened your mouth to answer, vocal chords crackling as you whispered..._

“I’m yours.”

Ghostface smiled, deep and dark, and neither of you heard the pained cry from the other room as he closed the last inch of distance between the two of you. His lips captured yours, hungry, possessive, and then he pulled back and growled into your ear, “I am going to ruin you.”

A quiet part of your mind froze with warning, but you ignored it, just like before. Maybe you shouldn’t have.

Hours later, as you both lay on the couch- tangled up, sweat and blood and musk- Ghostface turned to you. The ropes still tied your hands, the flesh rubbed raw, and he dragged a hand around your wrists as he breathed hotly on your neck. 

“I think it’s time for us to get going,” he murmured, like it was playful, “Somewhere better for you- for us,” and he was pressing his nose against your neck again, one hand beside it, the other hand tapping your skin with his knife, “Somewhere _safer_. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You parted your lips to reply, but then he was kissing you again, stealing the words away. A reply that wouldn’t have mattered. Your eyes went wide at the feeling of his hands on your neck, squeezing now, and a quiet noise of pained panic managed to escape your throat. Tighter. The bruises from earlier throbbed in tandem, and your vision started to darken, your chest heaving uselessly. 

“Don’t struggle now,” Ghostface whispered as he pulled back, just enough to stare you in the eyes, “It’ll be over soon.”

Finally, the world seemed to upturn, and then everything was nothingness again.

The new house was quiet. It was empty for miles and miles, somewhere far away from anything else. Ghostface had pressed you against the wall, and he’d called it, “Someplace no one will hear you scream.”

And someplace you could never escape from. Not that you’d ever think that, of course… this was what you’d wanted. Yes, you’d wanted this. The doors were locked, and the windows were locked, and there were no clocks or calenders or phones- but it was fine. You were- happy.

It was safe here. 

Sometimes, Ghostface left. Only for a few hours, and then he’d come back and hold you, and maybe he’d hold you too tightly, maybe it would bruise and you’d tell him he was hurting you and he’d just squeeze harder. He’d say things sometimes too, _come on, don’t be boring,_ or he’d insult you without meaning you. He never meant it. He always complimented you after, always apologized after hurting you, that he didn’t mean it, sorry. And then he’d run a hand up your leg and promise that he’d make it up to you. Even if you didn’t feel like it.

You were _safe_ here.

And maybe once, you’d tried to run away. Maybe you’d spent the past week sobbing soundlessly, where he couldn’t hear, because he kept hurting you and you wanted _out_ and- _and you made a mistake, you didn’t want this, you want to see your family again and you’re sorry, Michael, you didn’t mean for this to happen, oh god, what have you done-_

The bathroom window had been unlocked. It was cold outside, and you only had on sweatpants, but you’d jumped out the window the instant that you knew Ghostface would be gone. Feet met ground, and then you were sprinting, cutting your soles on exposed rock, looking up at the clouds overhead like salvation. It was twilight. No sun, no moon, just purple and grey and an endless field, mountains in the distance. 

But there were footsteps behind you. Ghostface hadn’t left- maybe he’d left the window unlocked on purpose, for a game, because he gave a little laugh as he chased after you. He was faster. You tripped and stumbled and cried out, and then he tackled you onto the ground, a heavy thud and then heaving silence.

“Let me go,” you begged, “I-” What could you have said? That you regretted this? He had a knife, pressing insistently at the curve of your side, and even though his mask was gone his face was terrifying. So close. Abruptly, he stabbed the knife into the dirt beside your head, and you tried to tell yourself that you were safe, that he’d never hurt you. That he’d never mean to. 

“I guess you need to be taught a lesson,” he didn’t laugh, because it was too low for a laugh, had too much heat and intrigue. And as his hand started to trail over your chest, you reminded yourself that you’d wanted this. 

The lie was getting easier with every repetition. And if that was a lie too- maybe it would be the truth soon. 

And after the field, you never tried to escape again. The bruises lasted a long time.

Ghostface liked to take pictures of you too. It was his favorite thing, when he was home with you, taking photos when you were sitting or reading or getting undressed. Sometimes he’d ask you to pose for him. Sometimes, when he had you pressed against a wall or into a bed, he’d take photos there too. He had shoeboxes full of them, ones he liked most. Others, he’d take and then whisper, “the police are going to love this one,” and you’d learned not to protest, because then he’d say, “okay,” and send it to your parents instead. “This is a good one,” he’d say, as he dragged bloodied hands across your stomach, when he’d come back covered in blood and smiling, laughing, “Smile for me, won’t you?”

At night, he held you close and whispered in your ear, “You’re mine.” You’d say ‘I love you,’ but he never said it back. Only that you were his. Only want. Only need. 

Were you happy? You were safe now, safe forever. You had to be happy. This was what you’d wanted. And if sometimes you had to close your mouth to hold in the screams, that was normal too. 

One day, Ghostface left. Day turned to night, turned to day again, and he was still gone. It would’ve been the perfect chance to try to escape. The door could be broken, or a window, or you could try to find a phone or _something_, anything. But- but you didn’t. In fact, the longer he was away, the more terrified you became, until you were sobbing on the floor, a mess, panic ravaging you and unable to even think. What if he left? What if he’d gotten bored of you? How would you be safe again? 

He came back the second night. He found you curled up on the floor, clutching at blankets and clothes, and you’d let out another sob as you saw him. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was resignation. He reached down and grabbed you, bringing you to the sofa, where he whispered comfortingly into your ear, holding you just a little too tight, the click of a camera that might as well have been background noise. 

“It’s alright,” he muttered, “I just had to take care of something.”

There was a bloodied and dirtied white mask by the door. White, with slicked back hair and sunken eyes: Michael’s mask. Ghostface held you tighter at your shaking, and he laughed.

“You’re mine,” he assured. A promise. A threat. The closest thing to love you’d ever hear.

“I love you,” you whispered. And if you meant it or not, maybe you would if you kept repeating it.

After all, you had all the time in the world.

###### Jake and Quentin POV Chapter

Jake was- 

Jake was tired. Maybe the word would’ve been exhausted. He was tired, but he couldn’t sleep, and he was so close to crying but there wasn’t anything left to cry. It was a constant pit in his stomach, the feeling of omnipresent nausea. Something impossible to put in to words, because- because how could a parent describe it? To describe the feeling of their child missing, of that child being kidnapped and it was _all their fault_.

Jake held his face in his hands.

He’d watched the security footage on loop. Quentin said the forensics team had swept the store and your apartment. They were doing everything they could, but it felt like nothing at all; like they were running around and shoveling sand, only for the tide to bring in more. And- and it just kept getting worse. A couple of days ago, your car had been found crashed into a swamp, and then someone was found murdered in a house nearby, and Jake _knew_ it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe you’d tried to get away, and that person had tried to help you. 

Jake shuddered with a silent sob. 

What was even worse? What was even worse was that, they _did_ get more information. A day ago. A gas station, saying they’d found you. And it was you, on the security footage. Your hair was different, and you looked terrified, and- and wasn’t that what all those ads warned about? Human trafficking, changing the person’s hair and clothes and then making them disappear. 

“Oh, god,” Jake whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. The memory still played. How you’d almost gotten away again- again! And then that man in the mask, the one from the store… “I’m so sorry…” Jake choked into the silence. That same man from the store, that had been stalking you, it had to have been him. And Jake hadn’t been there to protect you. Now you were gone again. Gone, probably forever. This must have been your only chance to escape, and it hadn’t been enough, and now all Jake had to remember you by was a destroyed apartment and that terrified face in his memory.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Jake almost didn’t answer it, but he pulled it out anyway, drying his eyes with the back of his hands. It was Quentin.

“Quentin?” Jake asked, hoping his voice didn’t sound as raw as it felt. Not that it mattered a moment later, as Quentin’s voice rasped.  
“They found them.”

Jake was out the door in a heartbeat.

Quentin Young was many things. A police officer, a husband- most importantly, a father. To you, the most amazing kid in the entire world. Even though you were growing up so goddamn fast, you were always going to be his little pancake. Every late night at the station, every criminal caught, it was all done for you. So that you could grow up in a safer world. Jake called him a bleeding heart, but in a light and teasing way, hands held in the streets and a small smile.

Quentin was many things. But he loved too hard, too heavily, and so with his only child missing- 

It was tearing him apart.

Hours didn’t matter. Hours on the clock started to blur together, as he worked and worked and tried to find some break in the case, anything. He wasn’t a detective, this wasn’t even nearly his line of work, but none of the other officers could hope to tear him away from this case. It was his _own child_. Missing. Kidnapped.

Quentin could only imagine how hard Jake was taking it. It wasn’t his fault- and it wasn’t Quentin’s fault, either, but of course it would feel like it was. What if he’d gone to see you that day instead of working? Would he have been able to save you? He would have. He should have. But now you were gone, and…

Nothing seemed like it would make it better.

“Officer Young,” the voice of his boss, calling from the open door. Quentin looked up from his papers, squinting against the light of the rising sun. Had he been up all night again? He blinked, and the Chief cleared his throat. There was a complex sort of expression on his face.

“Yes, sir?”

Chief Ramirez stepped forward, setting his hand on Quentin’s shoulder, “I’ve got the Mercy Hospital on the line in my office. South California,” and an inhale, “They say they have someone matching the description of your child.”

Quentin’s world seemed to freeze. 

And it was only a moment before he was rushing up and out the door, forgetting about rank and propriety as he ran to the office of Chief Ramirez. The phone was there, waiting beside the receiver, and Quentin pulled it up to his ear and prayed.

“This is Officer Quentin Young,” he managed, “I was told you had someone by the description of my child?...”

###### The Unnamed Dead Character in Chapter 15 POV

My name is Rachel Smith, and I am going to die. I don’t want to die; I’m only sixteen years old, and I’m bleeding out in the dining room of my house. I’m- I’m so close to the patio door, but I can’t even get up, and I can barely even cry. Everything hurts… everything hurts, and I’m going to die.

It’s not fair…

My mom is dead. He got her first, because he’d knocked on the door and I should’ve been the one to go downstairs to check but I was too busy talking to Adam on the phone and now my mom’s dead and- _it’s all my fault._

I try to crawl across the floor to reach the patio door, but I only manage an inch, and it hurts worse than anything I’ve ever felt in my entire life. My little brother is at his friend’s house, and dad is at work still, and I want my mom back and I want my dad and I’m giving soundless sobs that constrict my chest and hurt so bad. 

I hear the front door open. And I think for a second that it’s my dad and that I’m safe and I want to cry again, I try to call out something but I can’t. And then I hear Him.

_ “Don’t worry, I got rid of the residents. Couldn’t have them getting in the way, right?”_

There’s someone else with him. They shout, “Go fuck yourself!” I wonder who they are, a little deliriously; everything is getting quieter again, darker, harder to think. Like falling asleep with a fever. The blood is warm and it’s falling out from between my fingers. I’m so cold.

They talk. I don’t know how long, and as they talk and I lay there dying, I start to cry again. I’m thinking about my mom now; she shouted for me to run away, and then she’d screamed and it was so loud and it rattles around my head, how she choked on her own blood. Like I’m doing right now. I wonder what he did with her, and I manage to crawl another inch towards the back door when I see it-

“Mom?” I choke. Her eyes stare at me vacantly, separated by the glass door. She’s dead- I know she’s dead, I know he killed her, but now that I’m staring at her I can’t help but-

But cry. It’s a loud sound. It _hurts,_, and I can’t stop it from slipping out from between my bloodied fingers, and sobs. It’s too late. I know they’ve heard it, in the other room, and I know then that I’m going to die. 

Footsteps. My breathing is getting haggard. I don’t want to die; I’m crying, everything is so cold, I want my dad, I want to go home. The footsteps stop and I look up, and there he is, the man in the Scream mask. 

“No,” I scream, but the sadistic man playing at being Ghostface just laughs. I can’t even try to get away. “No!” I wail, as he stomps closer, “Don’t- No, please, no no- I’m sorry, please don’t do this-“ and I choke on my own sobs and can only barely manage to beg, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you were home.”

I scream again. He’s only a step away. I’m sobbing, and I’m shaking, and I want to throw up and I- I can’t understand- I’m going to die, I don’t want to die, I’m so scared, I’m scared-

“Please- no, no, _no, please no-_”

I shriek as he sends the knife flying down. It stabs deep into my chest, and it’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt, cutting deep inside me, slicing into my lungs and making my scream rattle and start to drown in blood. It feels like a hundred volts of electricity, and it burns so bad, and he yanks the knife out and then stabs again. My scream is quieter that time. Another stab. The world is dark. Everything is cold. My voice is gurgles, I’ve stopped moving, my eyes are watching my dead mother and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

I’m so scared.

Then, the light goes out. My name was Rachel Smith, and now I am no more.

###### Extra Content

The ‘I didn’t have a label for this stuff’ part. 

While I leave it open for interpretation, the old woman in chapter 14 is implied to have known Hillsan. My interpretation is that she was his wife, and that ‘for Sarah’ on the lighter was for their daughter, who died to something similar to what the reader is going through. I also leave it open to interpret whether or not the old woman was killed by Ghostface, whether she was even alive at all, or if she lived. That one is strictly up to you. 

The inspiration for the whole ‘these characters have come to life’ is taken from the Tulpa: a being or object which is created through spiritual or mental powers. I’d always wanted to write a story playing around with that, and decided to do it in this vein. I’m happy with how it turned out. And speaking of...

I do really love writing Ghostface. However, from the beginning I was writing him as the ‘antagonist’. To contrast Michael, who is also a bad person, but in comparison to Ghostface he is much better. A foil character. Hence why the Ghostface Ending is kind of Awful ™ . Because that’s not a happy ending by any means. Maybe with a different Ghostface it would’ve been, but the version I ended up producing through the run of this story is not a good person by any means. But.. he really is a hell of a lot of fun to write. Literally almost every sentence he says is a double entendre.

There are a few references in the story to other works, and off the top of my head I can say that Mr. Barnes (chapter 3) is a reference to Bucky Barnes from the MCU. The other ones will have to be found and guessed at .

Now, the chapter titles, those were a lot of fun to do. Chapter 12 is my favorite example of this. ‘Empty’ literally means ‘car is empty’, but it is also a red herring for Michael, to imply he is empty (when he kills that man. Who turns out not to be dead actually.) And some of them were just me going, that’s a fun chapter title. Looking at you, Cider. 

I really really enjoyed reading every comment I got on this! I rarely reply to them, because then I’d have to reply to every single one and I have neither the time nor the ability to do that. But I want everyone to know how much I enjoyed writing this for you all to read! Every interpretation of Michael that I do turns out different from the last, and it’s so fun to explore his character. Same for Ghostface. This is hardly going to be the last story I write for them, so maybe we’ll be seeing more of each other in the future.

Thank you all again for reading! I hope you all have a lovely rest of your day.


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